Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tony woke in stages. The first feeling was one of absent pain, which led to confusion. When she'd fallen unconscious, it had been a merciful respite from it, but now there was nothing left of it at all. There was a brief feeling of falling, disorientation that made her press her heels into the ground and jump. The jump was little more than a shake, and the chair she found herself sitting in scraped an inch back on the stone floor.

She opened her eyes to stare at the floor in confusion--the apartment she shared was fully carpeted, stone would have been easier to vacuum--before looking up and examining her surroundings. Stone walls. Iron sconces holding torches, most of which were not lit. Metal cages with closed doors, holding nothing within but empty beds that made her back ache just to look at them. Tony kept her eyes wide, willing herself to adjust faster to the darkness.

A door opened, and she immediately regretted opening her eyes at all, squeezing them closed once more. The light lanced through her eyelids, staining her vision red as she rapidly blinked.

Two incredibly unlikely women entered. One was wearing plate armor that clanked while she stomped. The other was wearing a sort of... Tony squinted at it. Maybe a dress? It was long enough to be a dress. Pants were involved, and boots. Also a hood, which covered up almost all of the woman's red hair. This woman crossed her arms over her chest, clearly unamused, and Tony returned her attention to the knight-looking person.

Just as the knight opened her mouth, Tony said, "Hello."

The woman jerked back, like a kitten that had been booped on the nose.

"Do you know where I am?" Tony squinted past the knight and the redhead to try to get a look outside, but there were merely stone stairs and more torches. "And why I'm wearing... this?" She held up her arms, which were imprisoned at the wrists in a sort of hands-exclusive stocks, like her fingers were criminals.

Moving her arms had been a mistake. First, the knight growled at her, which Tony did not care for. In the next second, there was a flare of lime green in her left palm, accompanied by a sharp pulse, as though she were being stabbed by an invisible knife. Tony let out a cry, more of surprise than pain, and let her imprisoned hands drop once more.

"Tell us why we shouldn't kill you now," said the knight. She was more in her element now, Tony couldn't help but notice. Maybe she was a cop.

Tony looked up at her, trying to guess what sort of response she was supposed to give. The complete lack of context kept her silent.

"The Conclave is destroyed," the knight continued, wind having fully returned to her sails. "Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you."

Tony did not know what a Conclave was, but she sensed the implied capital letter. She looked between the two severe women and decided not to ask.

"I'm sorry," said Tony. The knight sneered, and Tony continued, "I--that's not an admission of anything, but I am sorry. People've died?"

"Explain," the knight bit out, grabbing Tony's wooden arm prison. The jostling did not help the pain in her hand.

Tony swallowed another yelp of pain. "Please don't do that," she said in a rush.

"No one can be this stupid," said the knight. "Tell us what you know. What that is," she said, her anger gaining steam.

"I am this stupid," insisted Tony. "I don't know what's--I mean, I know that's not what you want to hear--"

The knight, her patience extinguished, kicked Tony's chair in the leg with her armored boot.

The redhead barked, "Cassandra!"

It fell back to the floor with a clatter, and nearly carried Tony with it. Tony stood up straight, incredibly surprised to learn that she had not been tied to the chair in any meaningful way. It was only then that she realized she was the shortest person in the room. Embarrassed, she knelt down, righted the chair again, and sat once more.

No one spoke for a tense moment.

"You did not try to run," said the redhead. "That is good."

Tony thought of many things she could say, and settled on, "Might as well die seated."

Cassandra the knight and the redheaded person exchanged a meaningful look that Tony could not decipher. The redhead took a step forward, and Cassandra retreated, scowling and red-faced, possibly embarrassed by her outburst. Cassandra was clearly the bad cop, and so Tony found herself relaxing a little when she gave her some space.

"Do you remember what happened? How this began?"

"No," Tony said immediately.

The redhead did not glare. Her forehead didn't go wrinkly, her brow didn't scrunch together. It was somehow worse than that. She stared through Tony, pinning her to her chair with the intensity of her scrutiny. Her gaze felt heavier than chains would have been.

"Oh," said Tony, distantly terrified. "Wait a moment--yes, I think..."

Cassandra snorted. Leliana didn't smile, but she also didn't stab Tony with her eyeballs, so it was an improvement.

The only issue was that Tony really didn't remember. There was no clear line, no narrative to the flashes of memory she did have. She remembered the apartment, the window shattering, and then being on a mountain for some reason. Mountains were not her scene, traditionally; she did not hike for fun, and only ran when chased. There had been a whole mess of green light, which also didn't make sense to her. Tony's truth was flimsy, and worse, she lacked the time and space to create a convincing lie. She was going to die because her dreams were dumb.

"I was running," said Tony, frowning. "I was being chased, so I ran up a rocky slope, and at the top there was..." She gestured with her hands, forgetting why that was inadvisable until there was another stabbing pain. "Jesus," she swore. "Sorry. He wasn't there. There was someone, though. They had a woman's voice."

"A woman?"

"No idea," said Tony. "But they had a woman's voice, and they were made of light, but not green light, which distinguished them from pretty much everything else. They reached out their hand, I think to help?"

Another important look between the two cops.

Tony shifted in her seat. "This all sounds like bullshit, of course."

"Not entirely," said not-Cassandra.

"Oh good," breathed Tony. "I don't know what else to say. There were a lot of, like, half-formed ghosty things, as well. Does that--is that anything?"

Cassandra sighed, an invisible weight heavy on her shoulders. "Go to the forward camp, Leliana," she said, and moved toward Tony again, who leaned back as far as she could in her seat. "I will take her to the rift."

Leliana turned to leave. "Bye," said Tony. Leliana paused, shook her head, and then kept walking away.

"I figured I was having a nightmare," said Tony as Cassandra released her wrists from the stocks. "I mean, you know. Me, mountain climbing? Kind of a giveaway." Cassandra gave her a look that was fifty percent confusion, fifty percent anger. Tony chose not to respond to that look, as the only response she could think of would be pissing her pants. She asked, "What did happen?"

Cassandra replaced the stocks with rough rope. Tony didn't know if she preferred it. She felt like she didn't know anything at all.

"It will be easier to show you," Cassandra said.

The air grew colder as they ascended out of the dungeon, and by the time they exited out into the world, Tony was shivering like a chihuahua. The wind picked up, tossing a flurry of snow into her face and whipping through her clothes as if they weren't there. Her boots, at least, withstood the snow. God bless Doc Martin, wherever he may be.

There was a hole in the sky, haloed with sickly green light. It flared, stoked by some celestial poker, and pain shot through Tony's left hand. The mark there responded to the evil aurora, flickered and burned in her palm. It felt like holding a pan's handle straight from the oven, and then being unable to put it down.

Cassandra was saying something, but Tony did not, could not, listen. She'd fallen to her knees in the snow, immediately soaking her trousers. She plunged her bound hands into the ice, trying to cool the green light she could not drop, but all she ended up with were blue-tinged fingers.

"It is killing you," Cassandra continued, hauling Tony upright again. "It may be the key to stopping this but there isn't much time."

"Stopping...?" Tony looked up at the glowing sky again. The evil northern lights gleamed back at her, a beautiful menace. "Oh. Got it."

"Come," commanded Cassandra. What could Tony do but follow?

They travelled through a depressing Renaissance Faire. There were no roasted turkey legs that Tony could see, and everyone was glaring at her. Tony, shivering and deeply confused, kept walking, trying to keep pace with Cassandra's marching.

"They have decided your guilt," she said.

"Popular choice," said Tony. "What did I do?"

Cassandra gave her a disgusted look. "You are the sole survivor of the Conclave. Our most holy, Divine Justinia, was taken from us by the Breach, as were any mages and Templars who could hope to reach a peaceful agreement. The people of Haven had hope, and they believe you have taken it from them."

Tony did not know what to say to that. She had thought the mountain nightmare had been bad. This--being the scapegoat for an unnatural disaster--was immeasurably worse.

The hike was awful, which did not make it unique among hikes Tony had been on. At least the uphill climb kept Tony's body heat up, though her sweat only made the wind feel stronger. Cassandra watched her, looking away whenever Tony tried to meet her eyes.

"Your clothes," Cassandra finally said. "You will freeze before we reach the rift."

Tony shrugged, or tried to. It probably just looked like more shaking.

There was a frozen pond, a circle of deep blue ice surrounded by a two-meters-high ledge. There were burlap sacks and crates, as well as...

Tony stopped in her tracks. There were dead bodies everywhere. Before, her eyes had been clouded with pain and watery from the frozen winds--she had thought they were rocks or something. Most of them were face down in the snow. Tony tried to be glad about that. It would have to be her silver lining, that she didn't have to look a dead man in the face.

Cassandra rifled through a sack and threw a blanket at Tony. Tony caught it--no, not a blanket, a cloak, one with a clasp made out of a loop of leather and a tooth the length of her index finger. She pulled it on--no easy feat, with her wrists still bound--and then continued along with Cassandra.

"Th-thank you," Tony stuttered.

"Why are you dressed that way?" She sounded like Tony had chosen the outfit specifically to annoy her.

"It wasn't snowing, earlier," said Tony. "I wasn't on a mountain." She sighed, her breath a puff of mist. "I don't know."

Things continued being shit from there. A bridge collapsed underneath them, and Tony hit every one of her limbs on the way down. It was a miracle she could stand, after. When she was immediately face to face with a monster, she decided that it wasn't a miracle, after all. Maybe this was limbo. Maybe, someone somewhere was feeling torn about how exactly they wanted her to die.

"Stay behind me!" Cried Cassandra, unsheathing her sword. Tony had not been planning on anything else. Unfortunately, Cassandra did not attract all of the monsters to her, and Tony was face-to... face? Something. If it had a face, it was facing Tony, and it was rapidly approaching.

Tony ran. Her cloak whipped up behind her like a cape, letting out what little heat she had been able to trap inside. Her boots slipped on the ice, so she dashed for the upward slope, bound wrists held to her collarbone, fingers clinging to the wool of her cloak. The monster moved like a snake about to lunge, and Tony's feet struggled to conquer the thick, fresh powder.

"Cassandra!" She screamed, beyond terror. "Help!"

There was a roar, followed by the ring of metal slicing through air. The effect was spoiled, in Tony's opinion, by the hissing, squelching noise of Cassandra slaying the monster. Tony did her best not to fall to her knees again, but it was a close thing.

"You," said Cassandra, horrified. "You could have--why did you not defend yourself?"

"I don't want to die like this," said Tony, looking Cassandra in the eye. "I've been cooperating, right? I didn't run. I told you what I saw. I'm cooperating, so you--you can't let me die here."

"I will not." She looked annoyed with herself, as if she hadn't meant to promise anything. She cut through the rope at Tony's wrists, finally letting her free. "Stay close."

Tony did, all the way up another steep slope, but Cassandra was moving quickly. Wherever they were seemed to be entirely composed of uphill climbs. Tony was nowhere near fit enough to run up a mountain and chat at the same time. She focused instead on not falling too far behind Cassandra, and calling out whenever she saw a demon Cassandra might have missed.

They met up with a group of fighters that Cassandra seemed to know. Tony hung back behind a turn in the road, watching as they disposed of the monsters with the sort of efficiency that Tony would have expected from a rehearsed dance. There was a short man with a crossbow, and what appeared to be an elf with a magic staff. Tony was in too much pain to believe herself to be dreaming, but reality was making quite the case for her madness.

Once all the monsters were gone, the elf ran to fetch her, leading her by her raw and bruised wrist to the relatively small green cut in the air. "Quickly! Before more come through!"

The sensation was like pulling a hairball from a shower drain, only moreso, and terrible. There was suction, some sort of resistance and pressure, combined with the throbbing heat of the mark on her hand. When she pulled her hand back, breaking the lightning-like connection between her and the rift, the rift disappeared. She looked at her hand, not daring to hope. She had been right not to; the mark was still there.

The elf looked at her hand as well, bizarrely serene. Tony had lost count of the number of impossible things she had seen that day, and yet this man's calm demeanor was threatening to break her composure entirely.

"Hello," she said. She felt she had to say something, and it was all she could manage on short notice.

His eyebrows raised slightly. "Hello," he said. His voice, when he was not using it to shout, was deep and smooth. "You arrived just in time. I was beginning to tire of dispatching demons."

Tony flexed her fingers, fighting against the wince of pain it sparked. Demons, then. Not monsters. "No worries. How did you do that?"

"I did nothing," he said, gently amused. "The credit is yours."

"Okay." She swallowed. "I mean, it'd be nice if I knew... how I did that?"

There was a brief discussion about the Breach and rifts and demons that Tony did her best to follow. She gathered that the mark on her hand was a tool to close these demon portals, which was good, and that it was stuck on her hand, which was bad. She was bruised, freezing, and entirely out of her element--she found it was easier to nod along instead of asking clarifying questions.

The short man--the very short man, Tony saw now, a four-foot-nothing brick shithouse of a person--stepped forward and introduced himself. "Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

He then winked at Cassandra, which she did not seem to appreciate.

Tony extended her hand to shake Varric's. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Antonia Gonzalez. I don't have, um. A list."

Varric's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he accepted her hand and even managed a light laugh. "Polite one, aren't you?"

"Terrified one," she corrected.

"Traveling alone with the Seeker, I don't blame you. Speaking of--what's next?"

He and Cassandra began a conversation that was mostly her yelling and him smirking. Tony wondered if there was something romantic going on there. It was very Sam and Diane.

The elf with the nice voice and insane composure turned to Tony. "My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I'm pleased to see you still live."

Tony extended her hand to shake, but saw that both of Solas' were on his magical staff. She slowly brought her hand back into the warmth of her cloak. "Same here. Demons almost punched my ticket a dozen times on my way up."

Solas tilted his head, as if he weren't certain he had heard her correctly. "I am not familiar with that phrase."

Tony sighed. "No, you wouldn't be, right? Just... thanks, for the magic, and the demon dispatching."

"Not at all," he said, and would have continued, were it not for Cassandra's loud, angry sigh at Varric.

Solas smiled. "It seems we are moving on."

"More uphill?"

"No, actually."

Tony sighed in relief. "Thank God for small favors."

Varric was far chattier than Cassandra had been, which made things seem to go quicker. They descended the snowy mountain together, Tony hanging back to be by the magic user and the guy with the crossbow.

"So," Varric started, "with a name like that, you've gotta be Antivan. Why no accent?" Tony shrugged and shook her head. "Come on, it's gonna bother me otherwise."

"Long story," she said instead. "Not sure how it ends, or how much sense it makes."

"I make my living off stories," he insisted. "Try me."

She looked over, and saw he was smiling up at her. No one had been that warm since she woke up in chains. It was so disarmingly friendly that she nearly tripped into a snowdrift.

"Whoa there," he said. "My mistake. I forgot the effect I have on women."

"Sorry," she said. "Just." She frowned. "Wearing a shirt like that, and you forget?"

He laughed in two bursts, first in amusement, second in response to his amusement. "You are all kinds of unexpected, Antonia."

"Tony," she corrected. "And so's... everything about all of this, really."

"No shit," said Varric. 

There was more fighting, more green light, more pain. Tony did her best not to fall behind, but she was as accustomed to snow as an octopus to the tuba. Her boots were not meant for such prolonged exposure to the elements, and her socks were soaked through. She felt, and doubtless looked, like a drowned rat.

"Hold on, Seeker," said Varric. "Damn your long legs. I need a rest."

Tony felt her face flush, which was embarrassing. "Look, you don't have to--"

"No, no, I'm serious," he said, leaning down as if catching his breath. He'd never lost it.

"Varric," Tony said, too tired to hide the edge to her voice. "I just want to get where we're going."

Only then did he look up. He was smiling. It was unbelievable, but he was. When had Tony stopped being a prisoner?

"Ask Cassandra to carry you," he offered. "It'll be funny, and she might even say yes."

Tony was at a loss. She'd woken up in a dungeon, for God's sake, didn't he know that? Just because her wrists were not currently bound did not mean she was any less of a perceived criminal. People had died, and other people thought she had done the killing. There was no reason for him to be nice to her, and every reason for him to keep his distance. Was he being stupid?

"You're too kind," she said. "Literally. Stop it."

He shrugged. "Just don't fall into another snowbank, all right? My eyes are up here." He chuckled. "So to speak."

After all that, Tony put her head down and focused on her breathing. Time passed--minutes? Hours?--and they managed to arrive at another green sky-tear, followed by a bridge. Tony, heretofore unimpressed by the stability of bridges in this place, stepped gingerly.

"Well done," said Solas, in praise of her second successful rift-ectomy.

"We made it," said Varric. "Take a break."

Unfortunately, that was not to be. Leliana was there, as well as a bunch of dead bodies and an incensed man wearing red and white. His name was Chancellor Roderick, and in many ways, he was a return to form.

"As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution," he told Cassandra.

Cassandra did the kitten-boop thing again, a small jerk back, before leaning in once more. "Order me?"

"More yelling," Tony muttered. "How does she find the energy?"

"She has spirit," said Solas.

"Don't talk about her like she's a horse, Chuckles," Varric said, sotto voce. "She doesn't like it."

"And you," said Chancellor Roderick, pointing at Tony. "I don't know who you think you are, but you have gone far enough."

Tony took a deep breath, trying to relax her shoulders with middling success. Finally, someone was making sense. "I agree."

"You--" He stopped, momentarily at a loss for words. "Explain yourself, prisoner."

"Tony," she corrected. "My name is Antonia Gonzalez. I'm from California. I don't know how I got here, but it involved green light, a mountain, and a woman's voice. I woke up in a dungeon this morning, as you probably know. I'm not a fighter--I can't use a sword or magic or anything like that--and I just ran for a million years. I want to vomit to death. It would be wonderful if I could stop here, Chancellor, and you're a wonderful man to suggest it."

Roderick sputtered, and Cassandra cut in. "You can't! We must push forward and close the Breach. The mark on your hand--"

"Is a complete unknown," said Roderick, back on even conversational footing.

"It has closed-- she has closed every rift we have come across," argued Cassandra.

Well, apparently her own execution was not the way to end this bizarre order of events. Still confused about the taxonomy RE: Breach versus rift, she spoke up. "Chancellor Roderick, Seeker Cassandra wants to seal the sky, and thinks the mark on my hand could do it. I have very limited experience closing rifts, I'm sorry to say, but I do have one bit of good news: it hurts."

Cassandra stared at her. "That's good news?"

"Sir," she continued, "if I survive this, feel free to ferry me along to Val-wherever. But if you want me dead, all you have to do is nothing."

Roderick frowned. Perhaps it was the only expression he could make. Stranger things, et cetera. He shook his head, and returned his attention to Cassandra. "You must sound a retreat."

The brief spike in adrenaline left Tony drained. "Look, I'm just gonna..." Tony wandered over to a wooden crate, tested it with her boot for strength, and then sat down. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." Her leg muscles were on fire. At least she wasn't freezing anymore.

There was an argument about soldiers, and valleys, and temples--Tony wasn't particularly trying to listen. She let her eyes slip closed, and might have even managed to fall asleep if she hadn't felt eyes on her. She opened one eye a slit, and found Solas staring.

"What?" She cleared her throat, immediately shamed by her curtness. "Sorry. Something wrong?"

"That remains to be seen," he said. "I have never heard of a place called California."

She shifted her weight and felt her spine pop. "Eh. You wouldn't have."

"You have said that before," he stated. "I have travelled far. It is rare that I have not at least heard of a... city? Country?"

"State," she said. "It's west."

"How far west?"

"Very," she said. "I don't--I'd have to look at a map, Solas. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful."

He shook his head. "It is nothing. We will have time to discuss this later. When you do not wish to... 'vomit to death,' as I believe you said."

"Don't hold your breath," she replied.

"What do you think?" That was Cassandra, and she was looking at Tony.

Tony looked between Solas and Cassandra before admitting, "I'm sorry. I--what?"

"The mountain path is fastest," started Leliana, just as Cassandra said, "There are two paths from which to--"

Tony was being asked for an opinion she did not have. "I don't know," she readily admitted. "I don't--do you really think I have the context to make an informed decision, Seeker? What does Chancellor Roderick think?"

"We cannot decide amongst ourselves," she admitted.

What a surprise, thought Tony. It must have come through in her expression, because Cassandra was starting to frown again. Instead of apologizing for the zillionth time, Tony looked to Leliana. "Is there a way... that is, which way will involve the least amount of death?"

Leliana took a second to consider, intelligent eyes focused on a point beyond her, before she responded. "The mountain path," she said. "It will have less fighting, though likely still corpses."

"Beautiful graveyard y'all have here," said Tony. She stood with effort, feeling as creaky as a tree in a gale. "Cool. Uphill?"

Leliana's smile was barely visible, but it was there. "Up ladders."

"Cool." She limped a few steps, pushing past her legs' protests. "See you later, maybe?"

Leliana simply nodded. Tony crossed the bridge, flanked by Varric and Solas. Roderick gave Cassandra a final pithy remark, and Tony nearly flipped him the bird. Things were confusing and strange, but he was obviously being a dick.

"I know you are tired," started Cassandra.

"Me? No," said Tony, willing her legs to move. "Couldn't be me."

"You are a terrible liar."

Tony felt a jolt of serotonin at that. She couldn't remember ever being accused of that before, and it gave her quite the opportunity. "Now, that? Is true," she said, pointing to Cassandra. "Makes you think that everything else I've said must not be a lie, right? Deductive reasoning. I'm a very bad liar in a very weird situation, and oh fuck, that's not a ladder, that's a--big ladder." She groaned, bringing her hands to her knees and panting at the ground. "Whatever the--is there a word? For a big ladder? Varric, you're a writer, right? Big ladder."

She heard him chuckle. "I'll think about it."

The ladders were awful. There were demons in the mountain path, of course, and the promised bodies.

"Varric."

"I'm here, Tony."

"I'm confused," she said. "You live here? Voluntarily?"

"In a manner of speaking," he said. "It's not demons and bloodshed all the time."

"If you say so."

There was another rift, and in a twist she had not asked for, more demons. These demons were new, all tall and insect-y, and they could teleport and knock people over. They chose to do this a lot, and after a while Tony just stayed down. From her position on the ground, she raised up her hand and closed the rift.

"You make it look easy," said Varric.

"S'not," she said. "Thanks, though."

There was a confusing moment where Tony was being thanked by strangers for choosing to save them. Tony could not recall doing any such thing, but was too tired to do anything but nod. "Living is good," she offered. "Glad to see you're... doin' it."

"You have my sincere gratitude," said one of them, and saluted with a fist on her chest. Tony, barely standing, waved back at her.

"That is going to need some serious rewriting," said Varric. "You were doing so well, earlier."

Tony raised an eyebrow at him. "Wasn't."

"You were! Very exotic and mysterious. A noble, perhaps, from a distant shore? A learned scribe, caught up in magic beyond anyone's understanding?"

"This is not one of your stories, Varric," said Cassandra.

"Not yet," he countered. "Everything's fodder."

"Noble," wheezed Tony. "Hilarious."

"Well it is now," said Varric. "I saw you and I thought to myself, 'now here's someone who doesn't know how to dress for a mountain pass.' I took a stab at guessing, and that's where I landed."

"Solas," said Tony. He looked at her, attentive, but she shook her head. "No, sorry, not--I'm using you as an example."

"Of?"

"Someone who doesn't know how to dress for a mountain pass," she clarified. "But you--you're not cold. Elf thing? You thing? Sorry, that's--rude."

"Perhaps you should focus on walking instead of my choice in clothing," he said.

She did her best. His outfit was easily dismissed, seeing as everyone but Tony was wearing a costume out of The Lion in Winter . His ears proved to be a different challenge entirely. If he noticed her continued confused glances, he was good enough not to say anything.

They eventually arrived at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It lived up to its name in that there was a fuckton of ashes, though Tony couldn't guess as to their supposed sacred nature. She kept her eyes down as she jogged, pleased to see that her feet were still attached to her legs. She could no longer feel either.

"That is where you walked out the Fade and our soldiers found you," said Cassandra. "They said a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was."

Tony couldn't summon up the breath to say anything to that. It was a good thing, too, since her first thought was to joke, Was she pretty? That was not the sort of comment to endear her to the Seeker, she knew, but she was running on fumes and everything that wasn't physical pain felt distant. She knew she was dissociating, but made no attempt to call herself back to the present. Floating above and away felt easier.

"You're here!" That was Leliana, who looked genuinely relieved to see them. "Thank the Maker."

The Maker of what? Another comment to keep to herself. Cassandra conferred with Leliana before turning back to Tony.

"This is your chance to end this," she said. "Are you ready?"

Tony looked up. And up, and up. "Are you..." she squinted. The Breach was very bright. "You gonna throw me? Or what? More ladders? I'm--" She focused on Cassandra again, who looked like she'd just eaten something bitter. "Right. Yes. Of course I'm ready. Let's save... wherever we are. Haven?"

"If we are successful, we will save all of Thedas," said Cassandra.

"Rad." She tried not to trip as they passed through the ruined temple. There were suddenly a lot more people around, and most of them were looking at her.

Tony had managed to go about forty paces before she heard the voice. It was deep and gravelly and everywhere, bouncing off the remaining stone with horrible reverberations. Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.

"What are we hearing?" Cassandra demanded. Tony had to assume she wasn't asking her--Tony didn't have a single clue. Solas guessed that it was whoever created the Breach.

Tony passed by some glowing rocks without a second glance. They were no more or less strange to her than everything else, but they seemed to bother Varric a lot. There was some more ominous echoing, and then--

Someone! Help me!

Tony's heart sank into her boots. She picked up the pace, sweat dripping down her back. Was someone down there?

"That's Divine Justinia's voice," said Cassandra.

Okay. The dead Divine was talking. Why not? Tony was too busy putting on a burst of speed to worry about the details. She heard her companions break into a run behind her--for once, she was on point.

Before this morning, Tony had never seen a dead body in person. She enjoyed a gorey movie as much as the next guy, and had seen Face/Off upwards of eleven times, but there was simply no comparison. She wanted all the dying to stop. She wanted all of this to stop. And maybe she could be the one to stop it.

Hey!

Tony stumbled. "What?"

Back off, man! You're hurting her!

"That's your voice," said Cassandra, short of breath for the first time in Tony's memory.

Back the fuck up, asshole! Fuck's wrong with you?

Cassandra winced.

Tony blushed. "I, uh. Don't remember... any of this. Sorry for the language."

The evil voice said something very "kill the spare" adjacent, and the group finally reached the center of the temple. The Breach was still high up, and yet Tony could feel it in her hand.

"We may attract attention from the other side," mentioned Solas.

"That means demons," Cassandra clarified for the people in the back.

"Love this," muttered Tony. "Love all this, for me."

Varric hoisted up his crossbow, which was apparently named Bianca. "See you on the other side, Tony."

Tony swallowed, trying to think of something to say. If this was the end, then she wanted to say something clever. Unfortunately, she was too tired to come up with anything passable in the three seconds she had. "See you."

Cassandra yelled, "Now!"

Tony reached up, and green light exploded through the sky.

Chapter Text

Tony woke up wearing clean clothes and lying on a comfortable bed. She took a moment to lie there, eyes closed, and savor the feeling of not being frozen. Then, as her memories returned to her, she took a deep breath, filling up her lungs, before slowly exhaling. It was amazing that she could still do that. She would have lost a lot of money on betting the opposite.

Only then did she open her eyes. She was in a rustic apartment--a cabin, maybe, with wooden walls and few decorations. From her spot on the bed, she could make out snow through the window.

Instead of pinching herself, she sat up and locked eyes with an elf. She jumped in surprise--they both did, and the elf dropped something with a clunk.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

Tony shook her head, rubbing one eye with her fist. "I wasn't, until about a minute ago. Are you okay?"

"Am--" The woman looked like she'd fall over in a stiff wind. "Am I--?"

"Sorry for scaring you," said Tony. "You didn't get your foot, did you?"

The elven woman collapsed onto the ground. Tony shot out of bed, convinced that she had fainted, but no. She was... kneeling?

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I am but a humble servant.”

Oh. Tony flushed, embarrassed by the display. "And I'm Tony," she said. "Please--you're okay, right? What's your name?"

The elf stammered, shook her head, and continued. "You are in Haven, my Lady."

If this were Heaven, Tony was going to have some choice words with Moses about false advertising. "Seriously, get up," said Tony. The elf did, like a shot, and stood ramrod straight. "Relax," said Tony, which only resulted in more stammering. Tony bit back a curse. "Okay, look--where am I? Thank you for bringing that... box." Whatever it was.

"Haven," repeated the "humble servant." Apparently, people were all talking about Tony's amazing success with the Breach, which was funny, because Tony did not remember anything amazing or successful about it. There had been a huge horned guy, and a lot of blood, and she was pretty much done with the color green forever, but that was it. It hadn't gone anywhere. Maybe Varric had gotten to work rewriting history as soon as possible.

"'At once,' she said," said the elf.

"I really would like to know your--"

She ran.

"Name," finished Tony, alone again.

There was nothing for it--she had been summoned to the Chantry, so that is where she would go. Did it matter that she didn't know what a Chantry was? Apparently not. Maybe, if she were lucky, there would be signs.

In a way, there were. There were lots and lots of people, all saluting with their fists on their chests, all facing her. They made a sort of walkway straight to the biggest building in town. Tony noted, without pleasure, that it was obviously a church. People were looking at her-- everyone was looking at her, and it seemed like it was with reverence. Terror running up her spine, she walked, then ran, to the big wooden doors of the church.

She gave the assembled people one last look over her shoulder. There were people dressed in red and white, the way that Chancellor Roderick had been. They were kneeling, knees getting soaked in the snow.

"Oh fuck me," she whispered, and entered the Chantry.

She had not been wrong to think of Roderick. Many people were similarly dressed inside the high-ceilinged building. Tony had never felt comfortable in church. It was where her mother and her mother's husband had insisted that she dress like a loofah made of ribbons, and so she harbored a lot of resentment for it. She tried to remember that it wasn't a church, and that she wasn't there for confession. She was there to talk to Cassandra.

She strode down the torchlit hall and hesitated until she heard yelling. She recognized Cassandra's voice, and began walking faster.

Tony knocked on the door at the end of the grand hall and peeked inside. The shouting stopped, and Cassandra, Leliana, and Roderick turned to look at her.

"Hello," said Tony. "Sorry to have kept you waiting. Only just woke up. Hello again, Chancellor Roderick, Seeker Cassandra..." Tony paused. "Lady Leliana," she settled on. It would have felt weird not to include a title for everyone.

"Lady Gonzalez," said Leliana with a nod. "We have been expecting you. Come in."

Uncomfortable with the formality but recognizing that she'd started it, Tony entered the room and shut the door behind her. Roderick looked annoyed, but Tony suspected that could be a disorder of some kind. He clearly couldn't help it.

"Chancellor. Good to see you again," offered Tony.

"You live," sneered Roderick.

Tony scratched the back of her marked hand. "No one is more surprised about that than I am." Only then did Tony see the armed knight-looking people that had been stationed by the door. "Oh. Hello," she said.

Neither knight spoke. She supposed that was to be expected.

"Seeing as you have failed," said Roderick, "I expect your full cooperation in travelling to Val Royeaux in chains."

Tony opened her mouth to begin a complicated negotiation for her own weird life, but she did not get the chance to speak. Cassandra took immediate issue with Roderick, as did Leliana. The knight-bodyguards were excused, and Cassandra took out a very important looking book. There was a symbol on the cover that reminded Tony of Cassandra's armor: an eye, a sun, a sword.

"An Inquisition," Cassandra said.

Tony looked at her in shock.

Cassandra was surprised. "You know what this means?"

Tony swallowed. "I hope I don't," she said. "I hope that word means something different, here."

Leliana considered Tony, for a moment. Roderick groused, and Cassandra excused him with everything short of physical force. "What does it mean," asked Leliana, "where you are from?"

"Nothing good," Tony answered. When Leliana continued to look at her, Tony could only sigh and continue. "Where I'm from--not exactly where I'm from, not California, but--anyway, there was... Do you happen to know any Catholics?" Leliana shook her head. "Lucky you. I'm no historian, so I can't give you numbers or dates, but to me, the Inquisition was about censorship, torture, and murder. All in the name of God. Of one god," she said, correcting herself, "one of many, but Catholics only believe in the one."

Leliana didn't look super happy with the comparison, but Tony had never seen her look super happy, so barely took note. "The Andrastian Inquisition was not so grim, my Lady."

Tony wished she could be so easily convinced. The involvement of religion was giving her a sinking feeling. "Someone kneeled to me this morning," said Tony. "Several someones. Any ideas on why?"

Leliana's face went from carefully displeased to simply careful. It did not feel like an upgrade. She said, "They are calling you the Maker's chosen."

Tony did not know what the Maker was, but she could guess. Being "chosen" by a god meant that whatever choices she could have made about her own future had already been made for her, likely while she slept. What sort of god was the Maker? The kind that would save her in her hour of need, or the kind to demand her life in sacrifice to seal the Breach?

She brought a hand to her forehead, staring at nothing. When had all this started to happen? Hadn't she just been in her apartment? She'd just agreed to take over David's shift at the bar, and then the sound of sirens--and--and then--pain. Sharp pain, lots of it, warmth leaking out of her and leaving her freezing cold. After that...

Tony groaned. After that, there was a mountain, and green light. But that made no sense, that wasn't possible, why couldn't she remember--

"And why should they not?" Cassandra said. "You were what we needed, when we needed it."

Tony swallowed against her sudden nausea. "That's--this is crazy. I mean, I'm not--I don't believe in your Maker, Seeker Cassandra. Plus, literally everything else about me. No red flags there? I fell out of the sky."

Cassandra shook her head. "It is not about what you believe, Antonia. It is about what you are. What you can be."

"Dead?" Tony tried not to let her fear turn to anger, but she couldn't keep either feeling out of her voice. "Killed by a giant monster? I tried that. It didn't take."

Neither Cassandra nor Leliana were willing to budge. They had their own reasons, their own slightly different rationalizations, but it boiled down to the same thing. Multiple countries were undergoing what amounted to civil war, all at the same time. Mages and Templars were killing each other on sight. The head of the church-slash-Chantry was dead, and her plans to end the mage-Templar conflict had gone with her. While some people believed that Tony had been the cause of the lethal explosion, some now believed that she was the answer to their prayers for peace.

Somehow. For some reason. Even though the Breach was still there, there was no evidence to support the idea, and Tony was Tony, a complete unknown from an entirely different world.

"Help us fix this," said Cassandra. "Before it is too late."

Tony took a deep breath. It didn't steady her, so she took another. Cassandra, not exactly the epitome of patience, cleared her throat.

What else was there to do? "Yes, all right," said Tony, and extended her hand. Cassandra shook it, nodding to herself. At least one of them was pleased with the way the day was going. "Welcome aboard, me."

"Welcome aboard," agreed Leliana. "For what it is worth, I am glad that you survived."

Tony wasn't sure she could agree, but nevertheless, she thanked her.

-

So, Tony was a messiah, now. Fantastic.

A full day passed where Tony was left to her own devices, ostensibly so that she could rest. The only people to whom she'd been introduced were busy creating their Inquisition, which seemed to involve a lot of letters and dictations. No one asked Tony to do anything, and she almost wished they would; being left to her own devices gave her too much time to think, and she still felt very much in shock.

Instead of looking inward, she familiarized herself with Haven, all one-acre of it. Tony had never gone skiing, nor was she the sort of bougee fuck who had a cabin up in the mountains, so her frame of comparison was limited to what she'd seen in movies. She figured that Haven could be someplace in the Swiss Alps, or some nowheresville township in Germany: old stone, old forests, new snow. That is, if the Swiss Alps had two moons and magic. Maybe they did? She'd never been to Europe.

Her hand threw off lime-green arcs whenever she tried to walk through the town unnoticed. It attracted attention, but not conversation; no one spoke to her without her cornering them first. As the day wore on, she began to feel entirely outside of herself, hovering above her body, watching herself take stock of her new home.

That's what this was, she knew. She was going to have to get used to this place. Even if she left, where would she go? She doubted that California was a mere horseback ride away, and she hadn't arrived with her phone to check. She could pretend, but Haven was nowhere on Earth. Since she didn't know how she'd gotten here, she had no idea how she might get back.

While she floated above herself, she made a list of the things she needed to understand. She couldn't read anything--people used runes instead of letters, and they seemed to be more complicated than stand-ins for syllables. She'd need to learn those. Proper hygiene without showers or toilet paper, that was a big one. Were there toothbrushes? Was there someone she should ask for a toothbrush?

No coffee, she thought. It made her stop in her tracks. No chilaquiles. No bad movies, no good movies. You're never going to hear Mariah Carey's voice again.

She swallowed, and headed for the Chantry. It was a place to go, and she needed to do something. To go somewhere. The alternative was crying in public.

When Tony opened one of the tall wooden doors, she was greeted by Leliana. The woman didn't smile, exactly, but her eyes were kinder than they had been in the dungeon. Not a high bar to clear, certainly, but noticeable. "Lady Gonzalez. I was just going to send for you. It is time to introduce you to the others."

"Oh." She didn't feel in any state to meet anyone; she'd been wearing the same clothes for longer than a full day, as the alternative was her blood-stained t-shirt and jeans. She had yet to figure out how to bathe, and the one hair tie she had was on its last legs, letting frizzy wisps of it loose. Unfortunately, she didn't see that she had a choice. "Sure. Lead the way."

Leliana opened the door to the back room of the Chantry, ushering Tony in. Tony opened her mouth to thank her, and then felt the air disappear from her lungs. There was a man in the room who was so improbably gorgeous that Tony wondered if she'd been concussed. He stood on the other side of the table from her, and she was grateful, as she suddenly needed to keep a hand on it for support. She couldn't see his shoulders under a mantle of fur, but she knew they would be broad; his body was covered with armor and a loose-fitting red coat, but she knew it would be flawless. He had the face of a saint and a mouth that made her pray he wasn't one.

"Commander Cullen Rutherford," said Cassandra, "Leader of the Inquisition's forces."

Tony did not extend her hand to shake, as her palms had sprung leaks. She had a good excuse, as it wasn't as common to shake hands here as back home. She simply stared.

He looked down, somehow looking bashful while wearing a sword on his hip. "Such as they are," he demurred. "We lost many soldiers in the valley--"

"I'm sorry," blurted Tony. The Commander stopped, visibly caught on his back foot. She was instantly certain that had been the wrong thing to say, but it was too late to take it back. All she could do was stand there and be wrong about things. "I chose to take the mountain path," she continued. "I--maybe if I had chosen to go through the valley, or..."

"No," he said. His voice no longer had a thread of self-deprecating humor in it, and his eyebrows were raised. She was tired of people raising their eyebrows. The forehead cardio in this place was intense, thanks to her. "Forgive me, I did not intend to imply that." He nodded to Cassandra. "The Seeker is formidable, but four more fighters would not have turned that tide."

"Three," corrected Cassandra. The Commander looked at her, his surprise increasing. "She is no fighter, nor is she a mage."

"I'm a teacher," said Tony. And a bartender, and whatever else helps pay rent. She didn't want to confuse things, though, and so kept the specifics to herself.

Leliana looked down at the map, and then back up at Tony, eyes not unkind. "We are at war. Death is not unexpected."

Tony shifted her weight and fought to keep her arms at her sides. She wanted so much to fidget, but didn't want to be rude. These were the people in charge of her destiny, after all. "Then I'm sorry about that, too." 

Cassandra cleared her throat. "May I also," she said, "introduce Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat."

There was something about Lady Montilyet--her hair, maybe, the heart shape of her face--that made her ostentatious clothing look almost reasonable. She had the cheery, professional air of an executive, or someone who worked in marketing. She held a wooden board with a lit candle at the top, a sort of highly dangerous clipboard. Lady Montilyet gave a small dip, part curtsy, part bow. "I have heard much," she said, and then, bizarrely, something in what sounded like Castilian.

Now it was Tony who was off-balance. Tony tried, "Encantada de conocerte también."

"Oh," said Lady Montilyet, warm eyes wide. "I--believe I understood that. Forgive me, Herald. As I said, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"I guessed that's what you said," admitted Tony. "Sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Cassandra ground out.

Tony huffed a breath, not quite a laugh, and shook her head. "Sorry, but no." What was there to say? How could she explain? "I didn't have enough information, back in the mountains. There wasn't any time to explain things, obviously, but--" She pushed a few loose locks of hair back with a hand, frustrated with it. What were haircuts like, in Thedas? Were they expensive? "Look, I'm not just some random resident, I'm even less qualified than one of those would be. I don't have a grip on your history, your culture, your--magic, God, we don't even have magic where I'm from and now I have..." She flexed the fingers of her left hand. The light didn't arc, but there was a strange glow about the palm. "It's a lot, and I--want to temper expectations, you know? And yes, apologize in advance. I'm like a baby with a bomb strapped to their arm."

Silence around the table. The Ambassador was the only one who didn't look grim, and Tony assumed that was due to professionalism.

Tony coughed into her non-magic hand. "By which I mean... pleasure to meet everyone."

Cassandra groaned. Leliana stepped forward, forcing the meeting along. "We've met, but I should specify my role within the Inquisition--"

"Spymaster," said Cassandra. She was clearly less than thrilled with how this meeting was going.

Leliana's lips pursed. "Yes. Well put, Cassandra."

Tony took a deep, centering breath. "Right. Yes. Hello again, Lady Leliana, Seeker Cassandra. My name is Antonia." She grimaced. "Unfortunately, it's actually Antonia Artura Dorotea Gonzalez, but please don't call me that. Cumulatively, you'd save hours of your life just calling me Tony. My hand is magic? I guess?" The breath was not as centering as she had hoped. "Jesus Christ."

"If I may," said Lady Montilyet, "While we all appreciate your... candor, this meeting was called in order to decide on a plan of action concerning the mark upon your hand, Herald."

"Tony," she corrected. "And that's--that's a great place to start."

"The mark," said Cassandra, both hands on the table and elbows locked, "requires more power to fully seal the Breach."

Cassandra's posture was distracting. Tony couldn't help but ask, "Are you okay?"

It was not a welcome question. "I am frustrated," said Cassandra through her teeth.

"Is it my fault?"

"Yes," she said. Then, "No. You are--you have done all that has been asked of you."

"And failed," agreed Tony. "Looks like the first order of business is getting this glowing thing off me, wouldn't you say?"

There were only loaded glances in response. Commander Rutherford was the first to speak. "Is that even possible?"

"Full disclosure, I have no idea how magic works," said Tony, "as, perhaps, previously established, but it bears repeating. From what little I understand, the--my--my hand isn't... this is new to everyone. We don't know how it, specifically, works, so there's no reason not to hope." She braced herself and looked at the Commander again. "Right? Do you know something I don't?"

"I spent many years as a Templar, Lady Herald," continued the Commander. At her incomprehension, he said, "One who watches over mages, protects them and others from their magic. In all that time, I never saw a mage lose their magic through anything other than the Rite of Tranquility."

Tony brightened. That sounded like a pleasant possibility. "Fantastic suggestion, Commander. Tranquility, you said?"

He was uncomfortable, but she didn't know if that was due to the topic or his general disposition. He seemed to be an all-around uncomfortable person. "Severing a mage's connection to the Fade removes their magic, as well as their ability to dream. Their susceptibility to possession."

Possession, he said. As if this were The Exorcist. She gave him a disbelieving smile and said, "Really?"

He did not smile back. If anything, he paled further. He looked like an alabaster bust of a very sad man.

His hesitation melted the expression off her face and left her cold. Possession. Why not? Two moons, magic, and possession--what argument could she make to disprove the existence of these things? "All the more reason to cut me off from magic, don't you think? Or cut this off." She sucked in another breath. Her hand twitched; the mark vibrated against her skin, shaking the bones in her hand. "Eventually, anyway. There's still that hole in the sky, the Breach." She sucked in her lower lip and tried to remember anything useful about her arrival. After a few moments, inspiration struck. "Is there any chance that killing me would do the trick?" The Commander did not meet her eye, and the Ambassador looked prepared to laugh at whatever joke Tony was making. "Genuinely, I'm asking," clarified Tony.

The Spymaster tilted her head, giving Tony a once-over with her cool, dispassionate eyes. "This is not the first time you have made such an offer, my Lady. Your obsession with your own death is..." Leliana paused. "Troubling."

Without the context of her own lived experience, she supposed it would be. "I shouldn't be here," said Tony. Again, though--how to explain? "Look, I understand that there are lives at stake. I understand the... well, the basic abstract of the political situation here, and I don't envy any of you the task of untying that knot. But it's important that you all understand that when I... when I came through the Breach, or the rift, or whatever you're calling it, I thought that I was..."

Her brain didn't like to remember that part. The memories fought against her, blurring in her head. Unable to do anything else, she simplified. "When I woke up here, I thought that I had died."

No one looked eager to ask. After a moment's silence, Leliana said, "Why?"

Tony shifted her weight from foot to foot. "I can't remember much, but there was an accident," she said, circling her suspicions. "I fell unconscious back in California, and I didn't expect to wake back up. Being alive and being here is a weird, double-edged bonus," Tony concluded. "I'm not a ghost, I don't think. Do you have those?" Lady Montilyet nodded, and Tony sighed. "Of course you do. What's important is that the Inquisition needs-- you need--someone with the ability to close rifts, and who isn't me. There have to be options." Desperate, she looked around the room. "Leliana?"

"I know of nothing that could transfer your mark to another."

"Would Solas?" She remembered his certainty that she could close rifts. He'd been right. "He knows things."

"It is not simply your power that is important to the Inquisition," cut in Lady Montilyet. "It is you." Tony frowned, uncomprehending. The Ambassador's eyes were shining with emotion. "You are a hero to the people. A symbol. You attempted to save Divine Justinia--"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said Tony, holding up her hands. "According to whom? A bunch of disembodied voices?" She felt a nervous giggle rise in her throat, and tried to keep it inside. "Come on, Lady Montilyet. Even if that's true, and I did try to save her, it's not like I succeeded."

Lady Montilyet scaled back the intensity of her hopeful expression. It was a neat trick to watch; it showed a social savvy that Tony had rarely seen. It was terrifying for the same reason. "The truth has taken many forms, of late." It was a pretty answer, and gave Tony no new information.

"Chancellor Roderick went public with what you said to him," said Leliana. "You thought that sealing the Breach would kill you, and yet, you tried it anyway."

Tony frowned. "I should be dead. I thought that--I thought it would just work out that way. I wasn't thinking very far ahead, as you might imagine. I was too busy seeing demons for the first time."

Cassandra made a strange noise, something between a scoff and a laugh. "We will not solve these mysteries at this table. We need you for the Inquisition, Lady Gonzalez. Everything else, we will see to as we can."

Josephine nodded. "When we have the resources, the influence. As they are now, we would be hard-pressed to hire an arcanist to study that mark."

Tony decided that she hated this meeting. No one was listening to her, and there weren't even snacks. "Please," she said, feeling her mind and her body begin to decouple again, "just--I can't, I can't do this. I'm a nobody; I'm not even from here, I..."

The Commander made an expression that tugged at the scar on his lip--not quite a smile, but close to it. "I agree that your situation is... strange," he said, "but at present, you are our best option at sealing the Breach for good."

Strange, he said. Tony looked from face to face, studying their expressions. Finally, she put two and two together. "Oh."

None of them believed her about who she was. Not about California, not about her inability to fight, probably not even about her being a teacher. They knew she had a mark on her hand, and they knew that she could close rifts, but everything else she'd said or shown was apparently borderline farcical. No matter what she said, they had all already made up their minds. At least, she hedged, they didn't believe her yet. Now that they were no longer keeping her wrists bound, she had the time to figure something out.

They needed her help; there was no one else they could ask. Tony glared at the table, and then up at the Commander's disbelieving face. "What's at the top of your priority list?"

Yet again, everyone around her was having trouble making a decision. Mages, or Templars. Either one of them would give her mark enough power to seal the Breach for good. 

Tony wondered what a real Herald of Andraste would do. Assuming that there were an ideal person for this job, what would their first order of business be? Tony wasn't a manager, or a veteran, or anything that could be useful in a situation like this. All she had were the stories she had studied and the will to bluff her way through anything. As she thought, she had to ignore the ticker tape running at the bottom of her mind: this is stupid, this sucks, this is total bullshit.

After at least ten seconds, Tony turned to Josephine. "Ambassador," she said. "I've got some questions."

That bow-curtsy again. "Of course, Herald."

The title was not growing on Tony, but she continued without remarking on it. "Mages... they're born to every nation in Thedas. Everyone--potentially everyone could be related to someone with magic. Correct?"

"Not quite," said Josephine. "Though it has never been successfully recorded outside of the Tevinter Imperium, it is believed that magic runs through direct bloodlines."

She nodded, absorbing this. "Commander, I have a question about Templars."

He nodded, though she couldn't help but see the new tension in his shoulders. The tightness of his grip on the pommel of his sword. What was making him so angry? Or was it frustration, like Cassandra was feeling? She wished she knew.

"Could--so--here's..." She began. It was far more difficult to act competent under his obvious scrutiny. Tony opened her mouth to ask about his previous job, but ended up saying, "Relax."

He gave her a pretty amazing expression at that. It was as if she'd suddenly slapped him. "Excuse me?"

"You--" She floundered, hands dancing awkwardly in the air. "You could just say no. To questions."

His expression hardened again, but the effect was spoiled by the redness of his ears. "My Lady, I assure you, answering questions is no trouble."

It looks like enormous fucking trouble, actually, but she merely shrugged a shoulder. "I--just, anyone could be a Templar, right? If they weren't born a mage?"

He hesitated, still looking out of sorts. "It is not... it is not so easy as wanting to be one. It takes years of dedicated training."

"Hard work," she summarized, "and not everyone is interested in working hard." Tony started to pace, mostly so she wouldn't have to look at him. "Right. If I..."

Thedas was an entirely different world. No shared history, no shared culture. She was someplace complicated and new, and what little she'd learned spoke of a long and bloody history. Just because she was no longer in the dungeon didn't guarantee her safety. Important people in Earth history were rarely safe, and Heralds... well. Joan of Arc had been burned at the stake, hadn't she?

She ignored the chill that thought had sent through her. "Lady Leliana, I would like to ask something of you."

"You may."

"I have not changed my mind," said Tony. "I think--I know that this is a mistake. It has to be. If you have the time, could you investigate the possibility of moving the mark from my hand to someone else's?" Someone more capable, she didn't say. Leliana nodded her assent. "In the meantime, I think it's... God. Not to sound like my mother, but I think it's prudent for me to read up on, uh. Everything. Seeker Cassandra--"

"Pentaghast," Cassandra corrected. "If you insist on using my title."

"I think I do," said Tony. "For now, anyway. Seeker Pentaghast, you'd said that there would be a trial."

It took Cassandra a long moment to understand what Tony was asking. When she did, her face transformed with shock. "You are no longer a prisoner of the Inquisition, Lady Antonia. I--I had not thought to--"

"Not thought to tell her?" Lady Montilyet looked scandalized. "But you invited her to join us only a day ago! Did this conversation not happen then?"

"Maker's breath," muttered the Commander. It had the rhythm of a curse.

Leliana was smiling, for some reason. It only made her look more mysterious. "I had wondered what had you so tense, my Lady Herald."

"Oh, that's just a symptom of being me," said Tony, waving a hand. "I'm not going to be executed for killing the Pope, though, that's great news." She mimed wiping sweat from her brow. "Phew. Haha." She blinked. "Er, the Divine. The Lady Pope."

Lady Montilyet looked annoyed as she scribbled a note on her not-clipboard. "I understand that our customs might be unusual to you, my Lady. I would happy offer my services to tutor you in the basics of our ways, should that be of interest. I imagine," she added, favoring Tony with a small smile, "that it would be difficult to know where one might begin."

It was a generous offer, and Tony immediately snapped it up. "Thank you. That's--that would also be a huge relief."

"There is one woman," said Leliana, "who has asked to meet you specifically."

"Fun," said Tony. "Who is she?"

"Mother Giselle, in the Hinterlands, is curious about you."

"Mother... so, a Chantry person? Bold choice."

More plans were made, and after some indeterminate length of time, Tony left the conference with a feeling of definite, short-term purpose. She had no idea what was going on, but at least she knew what she needed to do tomorrow. It was a small thing to hold onto, but it was enough to comfort her a little.

-

Seeker Pentaghast tore into a row of dummies as though they'd just insulted her honor.

Tony looked out at the many pairs of sparring warriors on the other side of the tents. She wrapped her cloak closer around her, fighting a shiver. The clanging and banging was expected, she supposed. These people were motivated, not talented--believers, not savants. Still, it made her feel nervous to watch them.

The Seeker turned and spotted her. "Lady Antonia," she said, nodding her head.

Tony decided what she would say. It would be charming, and open, and exactly what the Seeker needed to hear. Instead, her mouth opened and let out, "Have those men been trained for long?"

Cassandra paused, murder slipping through her expression the way a shark would water. Tony babbled through her silence. "By which I mean--ah, Jesus, I'm--that was--I'm sorry, I just--they all look so nervous." She took a quick breath. "They seem... unseasoned? I don't know what the word is."

"Unseasoned is accurate," she said, still visibly displeased. "Their training is Commander Cullen's responsibility. Training which he should also extend to you."

Tony couldn't keep her nose from wrinkling at the thought. "I don't know how to fight with a sword, and I have no interest in--no," said Tony, speaking over Cassandra. "I understand why you'd want me to, but I'm not going to. Anyway, what could I learn in a week that would serve me in the Hinterlands?"

Cassandra turned back to her dummies, swinging her sword with expert form. "Not much. Perhaps not anything. We will not know, if you do not try."

Tony heard a recruit cry out in pain, followed by Commander Cullen demanding he use his shield more aggressively. "I don't want to kill anyone," she said.

"If only it were so simple." Cassandra swung down on a dummy's shoulder, nearly cleaving the arm clean off. It made Tony nauseous to watch. "There are many people who would not hesitate to kill you."

"I'm not traveling alone." Tony refused to feel childish about refusing to fight. Cassandra was free to think so, but Tony did not have to agree. "You'll be there to protect me."

Cassandra hacked at the dummy's shoulder again. This time, the arm fell to the snow.

Tony clutched her cloak more closely around her. "Or you could stay here? I'm--Seeker, why are you angry? What--what can I do?"

"I am not angry," said Cassandra, angrily. "I am... displeased." Tony shook her head, confused, and Cassandra sighed. "We lost many, at the Conclave. Most Holy is dead; I could not protect her. Now, you say you will rely on my shield. You refuse to pick up anything, even a bread knife, to defend yourself. It is your choice, Herald, but it is far riskier than you seem to believe."

It was difficult to see things from Cassandra's perspective. From what Tony had seen, Thedas was a land of harsh weather and harsher people. Death was everywhere--Tony had lived for thirty-one years without seeing a single corpse, and in her time here she had already lost count of how many she had seen. Perhaps on Earth, Cassandra would be pushing a can of mace into Tony's hand, or urging her to take a self-defense class. Prevention was a moot point, now. The mark was on Tony's hand, and would be until Leliana fixed it.

Tony sighed. "There is... something," she admitted. "When I was a kid, I..." Tony ran up against a lot of cultural differences right away. In order to explain The Princess Bride, she'd have to explain movies, and she did not feel at all equal to the task.  "There was a story that I was pretty obsessed with, and I'd pretend to fight with swords, but not--not longswords, not like what you're doing. Fencing."

Cassandra frowned. "Fencing?"

"I--it--sword? Swordplay? No shield? I wish I knew the word, but I don't. Footwork," she finally blurted.

"Footwork," the Seeker said. It was as if they were communicating through semaphore. "What about it?"

"Knees," Tony started. Then, annoyed, she went to the rack of practice swords. "I'm going to hold this wrong," she prefaced. "Ignore my grip. This is about my legs. All right?"

"I will try," said the Seeker, glaring at Tony's grip.

Tony crouched, sword in her right hand. Her feet were at a ninety degree angle, and her knees were bent so she was, in total, nearly half as tall as she would be standing at rest. "Fencing," she said. Then, she widened her stance, moving her feet to be closer to sixty degrees, making her weight balance on a triangle shape rather than a line. "Swordfighting. Right?"

Cassandra examined her form. "Not quite." She held her sword before her and crouched, feet spread wide, yet fewer than forty-five degrees at an angle.

"What?" Tony relaxed, standing at ease. "How? You'll fall over like that."

She smiled. "I haven't yet."

"Gimme the--whatever. Paces? Could you show me a drill?"

Seeker Pentaghast did. She showed Tony the way she could move in a complete circle without ever being off balance. She showed how the grip of her sword was long enough to be wielded one handed or two handed, and how it could be counterbalanced by either the force of her swing or her non-dominant hand levering near the pommel. When she wore a shield, she used it both to protect and to harm, its very presence changing the dimensions of the fight.

"Holy shit," said Tony. When Cassandra was visibly without a response to that, Tony blathered on to cover for her own strangeness. "That--I liked that a lot. Thank you for taking the time, Seeker, to show me."

She nodded. She was smiling, almost--the scar on her face puckered, giving it away. "Thank you. For reconsidering."

Tony's smile was more of a grimace. She returned the blunted practice sword to the rack. "Considering reconsidering, anyway. I'm not about to pick up a sword again for fun." 

"You need to be safe." Cassandra sheathed her blade and shook out her arms. "With luck, you will not need to fight often, but the Inquisition has not been lucky so far." She gave Tony a once-over, considering her legs again, even though Tony was not at all in position. "I believe that the story you admired was about duelists, my Lady. Dueling is impractical, but it is a form of swordplay, and I have seen something similar to your stance before."

"Duelists," agreed Tony. "Makes sense. It's--you know..." She looked over the practice yard. She saw angles that she hadn't, before Cassandra's drill. "I can see how hard everyone is working. I..." Tony decided not to apologize for being, in her mind, completely reasonable, and gave the Seeker a smile instead. "Would it make you feel better if I gave it a try?"

"I am not the only one who is concerned," said Cassandra. "Cullen should teach you."

"Maybe." There was a beat of silence in their conversation. Tony sensed what it might be about, and spoke up first. "I forgive you for before." Cassandra blinked at her. "For forgetting to tell me I was no longer--you know. You had a lot on your mind."

Before Cassandra could respond, a man in a green hood ran up to them. "My Lady Herald," said a runner. "Lady Montilyet is expecting you in her office."

Tony nodded. "Thank you. What's your name?"

The messenger hesitated. "Irving, my Lady Herald."

"Irving," Tony repeated to herself. "Irving. Thank you, Irving. Carry on."

The runner left. Cassandra quirked an eyebrow. "You mean to memorize his name?"

Tony nodded. "Everyone's name, eventually. It's only polite." She gave Cassandra a short bow. "Again, thank you for your time. I'll see you later." She hurried away, already anxious about keeping Lady Montilyet waiting.

Tony knocked on Lady Montilyet's door, and was surprised that she didn't call her in. Confused, she pushed the door open a crack and saw her speaking with a complete stranger. He was dressed in yellow and black, and wore a mask that concealed most of his face.

"Marquis DuRellion, may I introduce," said Lady Montilyet, "Lady Gonzalez--"

"A name none of Orlais has heard before," said the man. "A stranger, unknown to the Divine Justinia."

Tony couldn't argue with any of that. Marquis DuRellion was a bizarre-looking person, wearing a yellow and black checkerboard doublet and a mask with a mustache on it. The collar of his doublet was wide, tall, and broad enough to be used as a fishbowl, should the need arise. Tony bowed, hoping to hide her amusement. "It is an honor to meet you, Marquis. Is something wrong?"

"'Is something wrong,'" he echoed mockingly. "Your people are trespassing on my land!"

"The Marquis is in an uncomfortable position, my Lady Herald," started Lady Montilyet.

Before she could explain further, the Marquis rushed ahead. "My wife owns this land--the contracts with Ferelden nobility are without question. Your Inquisition is not a beneficiary of our generous offer to the Divine's pilgrims."

Tony swallowed. While it was clear that Lady Montilyet wished to speak, the Marquis was facing Tony, and there was some invisible but unbreakable barrier in her way. Tony had no such handicap. "Marquis DuRellion," she said, committing his name to memory. "Thank you for coming." She saw him hesitate, and continued. "I thank you, because we are in the middle of nowhere, and you must have traveled far. I had no idea anyone had a claim to this place--if I had, I would have sent a... letter?" She looked at the Ambassador, who nodded. "A letter," Tony continued, "thanking you for your patience and understanding."

"Your pretty words are meaningless, so-called Herald of Andraste," said the Marquis.

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. What was it about having a title that made people assholes? "I imagine they must be," she said. "I admit ignorance, on my part. That you would even speak to me is--"

"Marquis," cut in Montilyet, "the people here need refuge. They are the Divine's faithful, and they would not survive if cast out into the snow."

"And who benefits if they stay?"

Tony frowned. "You?" The Ambassador and the Marquis both looked at her. "Marquis, I feel... compelled to apologize, but I've been told I do that too much. It's just--surely you see that everyone here is indebted to you? Or your wife, I suppose."

"I have no interest in charity," he said, unamused.

"Okay," said Tony, hiding a flash of irritation. She wished that she could see his face. "People are coming to Haven because they believe in... in what happened here. They are spending money to stay comfortably. There is an economy here that didn't exist even a week ago. Is that what's bothering your wife? People bringing money to this village in the middle of nowhere?"

The Marquis, perhaps, glared. "Do you mean to suggest I should levy a tax against these pilgrims?"

"Are you not suggesting that?" Tony frowned. "Or did you actually want to throw everyone out? At least the pursuit of money would make a kind of sense, beyond simple cruelty."

"Marquis," said Lady Montilyet, breathless with concern. The Ambassador smoothed over Tony's gritty words with a trowel, explaining the situation in more detail and garnering sympathy from the masked man. After a thorough wooing, the Marquis left the room. He did not spare Tony a backward glance.

"Did I..." Tony pushed her hair out of her eyes. "Please tell me if I messed that up irreparably. I thought I was late to our meeting, so..."

"I admit, you were unorthodox," she said, "but not unskilled. Tell me, is there the Game, in California?" Seeing Tony's blank look, she specified. "Politics. Intrigue. Lies in the disguise of truths."

"Absolutely, there is," said Tony. "I never, uh, played it? But that's absolutely what's going on, especially in the wealthy areas."

"I am most intrigued. Forgive me, but you seemed almost invested in the Marquis' success. Did you see any proof of his claims?" The Ambassador gestured for Tony to sit, which she did with only a second's hesitation. She felt a little bit like she'd been summoned to the principal's office.

"No," said Tony, "but I was being serious when I thanked him. How long did it take for him to come out here? It's not like it's down the block." She gave a wincing smile. "I'm also not totally sure what a Marquis is, and I didn't want any trouble."

"Though I am unfamiliar with some of your specifics, I can glean a bit of understanding," said the Ambassador. "I must insist you try to be less sympathetic to nobles who come at their own expense to Haven. It is no small thing to afford the journey, my Lady Herald. They are as comfortable as they choose to be."

"I'll let you take the reins in the future, Lady Montilyet."

"Please," she said, color rising in her cheeks. "Josephine is fine."

"Only if you call me Tony."

Lady Josephine smiled charmingly instead of agreeing to Tony's terms. "Shall we begin? There are more influential families to learn about than the DuRellions."

-

After four days, Tony came to several conclusions. She would never get used to the cold that permeated everything, nor the feeling of freezing wetness that slapped her in the face whenever she went outside. She would never be able to walk anywhere or do anything without getting stared at. She would never understand the agricultural industries of Thedas, no matter how often Lady Josephine explained them--there was cheese, but no cows this far south, and chocolate, but its origins were kept a closely-guarded secret. Haven was receiving donations of goods, not money, and it was clearly a balancing act that few other than Josephine could handle. To Tony, the Inquisition's money situation was a single step from bankruptcy at any moment.

"But where is the food coming from?" Tony asked Threnn, the Inquisition quartermaster with the unkind face.

"Pilgrims," she grunted. "Volunteers. My job isn't to solicit, my Lady. I collect, take inventory, and hand out what's needed."

"So our supply lines could just stop? Without notice? What if there's a blizzard?"

"We're storing what we can, my Lady," said Threnn. She managed to make Tony's title sound like a rude nickname.

"Sorry," Tony said instantly. "I mean--I'm not trying to question you, I'm just concerned."

A soft laugh carried over the snow. Tony frowned and looked past Threnn, seeing Varric sitting by the fire a level below.

"Beg your pardon," he said, shaking his head as he warmed his hands by the fire. "I was wondering when you'd apologize. You made it a whole three minutes! New record."

Tony took the opportunity to leave Threnn alone, which she visibly appreciated--meaning, she rolled her eyes and angrily took up a report to read. Tony hopped down a level and joined Varric by the fire, sitting near him on one of the logs. The log was damp with melted snow, but Tony did not care. She was damp all over, all the time. It was doing terrible and itchy things to her skin.

"I've been meaning to talk to you," said Varric. Tony immediately opened her mouth, and he held up a hand to her. "And don't apologize for being scarce. Everyone's asking for a piece of you right now."

Tony flexed her marked hand, even though it hurt. It had become a reflex, like if she did it enough times, the mark would scab and fall off. "I asked them to ask," she said. "I'm not from Ferelden, Varric. I'm not even from Thedas. I'm at a disadvantage."

"So you're gonna try to cram in a whole life's worth of information into... how long, exactly? One month? Two?" He shook his head. "I know people are asking the impossible of you pretty regularly, these days, but who's asking you to do that?"

Tony shifted. "Nobody. But--"

"So cut it out," he said. Flippant. As if it were so simple. "Relax. Do Californians even know how?"

Tony was surprised into a snort. At his questioning look, she said, "Yes. I--yes, Californians know how to party. It's kind of a... it's our reputation, that we aren't serious enough."

He smirked. "You certain you're from there?"

She shrugged. "You aren't the first to ask." She rubbed her hands together, warming up her fingers. "How are you, Varric?"

"Me? Fine." He let the conversation change topics easily, for which Tony was grateful. They complained about the weather, the smell of the horses, the hole in the sky. It was refreshingly normal.

"And Tony," he said, smiling, "Seriously. Take a nap. Read a book. Whatever you do to pass the time that isn't apologizing to the air for breathing it."

"Thanks. I'll... I'll try." She considered the fire. What would she find relaxing? She knew where the baths were, now, and she'd figured out how to get her laundry done. Her days felt full of necessities, but even so, here she was chatting by a campfire. "I don't suppose you know any card games?"

Varric's smile went wolfish. "I might."

And so Tony was introduced to Wicked Grace, a game that was like poker, if poker were designed by some real bastards. The card suits were different, but there were still four of them, and Tony understood the basic order of importance pretty quickly. Three hands in, Tony asked, "Is this Herald thing a paying gig, or what?"

"Don't see why not," said Varric. "You broke?"

"Nothing but the clothes on my back," she said. "And the clothes in my cabin, which, is that cabin mine? Am I going to be asked to move at some point?"

He smiled and drew a card. "Eager to sleep in a tent? Just wait. We'll be camping plenty out in the Hinterlands."

She sighed, looking forlornly down at her hand. It was a good hand, but she let herself feel sad about everything else to help her bluff. "I am not eager to sleep in a tent, Varric. I'm pretty much the opposite of that."

"Then keep your head down, and maybe you'll get to keep your bed." He drew the card that meant the round was over. "Show 'em."

"Two pair," she said, dropping her hand face-up on the log between them. "Eat it, Tethras."

He groaned, but kept smiling. "Maybe it's a good thing we aren't using money, right now."

"That's shark talk." He gave her a questioning quirk of his brow as he shuffled. "Card sharking. As in, you're lulling me into false confidence now, so once I actually have cash, you can clean me out."

He made a bridge with the cards between his palms, then let Tony cut the deck. "What an accusation! Why would I ever do a thing like that?"

Tony smiled. "Because I like you, and people I like tend to be dicks."

Chapter Text

The night before they left for the Hinterlands, Tony couldn't get to sleep until the moons were high in the sky. The cold felt ever-present, and the light on the snow reminded her of the glitter of armor and swords. She wrapped her blanket closer around her, willing her thoughts to turn away from what she'd seen.

Her sleep was fitful. The mark on her hand pulsed in time with the flickering green light in the sky. She could see it behind her eyelids, no matter how tightly she squeezed them closed.

She saw the lake just outside of Haven's gates. It usually looked like a massive sheet of black marble, but that night it was liquid, gentle ripples betraying where the fish were swimming. Tony walked into the lake, feet bare, and did not feel cold. She bent to dip her fingers into the water, curious. When she pulled her hands back, they were soaked with red.

Tony looked out over the water, and saw that the red was her, it was coming from her. She stepped back from the lake, but the damage was done; the fish floated to the top, dead on contact with her poisoned blood. Tony turned back to Haven, and saw that the gates were closed.

The Breach was closer now, directly over Haven's Chantry. It flared and rumbled like thunder, sending fire raining down. The horses screamed as they fell in their stable, dead. When Tony tried to run to the gates, she found she could get no closer. Smoke blocked out the stars, leaving only the gaping wound of the Breach visible.

She saw Cassandra raise her sword, face contorted in fury. Tony raised her hands to guard her face, and found she was holding a sword, as well--green, lit from within with electricity and fire.

"How long will you refuse to humble yourself before me?" Cassandra's voice boomed, filling Tony's head. She brought her sword down onto Tony's blade, the blow sending up sparks. "Pathetic," she snarled. "Weak. Stretch out your hand toward the sky, Herald. Now."

Tony tried to speak, but her mouth was frozen closed. All she could do was parry weakly as Cassandra swung her blade like an executioner's axe.

Another voice, this one coming from the air itself, bore itself into her mind: Now is the hour of our victory.

"How dramatic."

Tony looked up. The Seeker was frozen mid-beheading, scar vibrant and red on her face, six inches long and bisecting an eye. As she looked at her, she seemed to lose focus, fading into translucency. From behind her stepped Solas, appearing in much sharper relief.

Solas looked at the seven-foot-tall, wrathful Cassandra with disinterest. "An unflattering representation. Why?"

Tony swallowed her surprise and managed to stand. As she did, the dream-version of Cassandra--for it was a dream, she realized now--shimmered away. Solas remained, hands clasped behind his back, taking in the scenery as if he were in a slightly boring museum.

"I would not call this rest restful, Antonia." He looked at her with a soft, almost pitying smile. "And you will need your strength for tomorrow's journey."

The sky above Haven was still hailing and raining fire, but it felt muted. There was no roar of thunder or shaking of the ground.

Tony frowned at Solas. "Are you... critiquing my nightmares?"

He tilted his head. "Are you receptive to critique?"

"Is this real?" She looked down at her hands. The mark was still there. It wasn't a sword, or a cannon, or anything. Just there. No more or less horrible than it would be in the morning. "Are you real?"

"All good questions," said Solas, "best answered after you wake up."

Tony shot up in bed, soaked in sweat and intensely confused.

-

Tony had no idea what to pack for a rift-closing mission. Luckily for her, things were made far simpler by her not actually having any money or belongings. Lady Montilyet--"Josephine," she'd gently insisted--gave her a small purse the morning of and urged her to go to one of the merchants they had at Haven to pick up a means of self-defense. It embarrassed Tony to be given an allowance by a woman younger than her, but she supposed it was necessary.

Seggrit the blond-haired merchant gave off a smarmy, used-car-salesman vibe, and she did not linger at his table. She ended up purchasing a knife that was long enough to be threatening, but light enough to hold without instantly exhausting her. She kept it in its sheath and strapped it to her side, leaning over to tug the buckles tight. It was then that she saw, under all the swords and raw materials, a book with no title.

"A journal, my Lady," he said. "Going for a very competitive price, I might add. There aren't many here who can or wish to write."

She snapped it up, along with a quill that had lost almost all of its feather and a small bottle of black ink. She put the ink in her nearly-empty wallet and prayed that it wouldn't break. Someday, she'd figure out how to make a pencil, or commission someone smarter than her to do it. Someday, if she ever had money. Religious leadership couldn't be that lucrative a gig, could it?

Tony set out with Cassandra, Solas, and Varric on foot, sparing the horses for messengers who needed the speed. It didn't take long for Haven to disappear behind them, blocked by snow and trees. If only the same could be said for the Breach.

Cassandra noticed Tony's frequent looks back at the hole in the sky. "We will deal with that soon enough," she said.

Tony nodded, a little embarrassed again. She didn't feel like a hero on an adventure; she felt like a payload to be delivered. The roads were clearly dangerous, and all Tony had to offer was a knife she didn't know how to use, a book with nothing in it, and a camping backpack with straps that pinched her shoulders.

Solas was at the rear, the slope of the road making that the best vantage point. His bare feet took on the snow and muck without visible issue. Tony, wearing new boots, tried not to stare. With Cassandra on point, Tony ended up alongside Varric, who was--as far as Tony could tell, given the brevity of their acquaintance--uncharacteristically quiet.

"Is something wrong, Varric?" He looked up, surprised at Tony's sudden question. She tried not to blush. Five minutes in, and her mouth already needed a foot in it. "No jokes about the shitty weather, or anything?"

"Plenty, but everyone else has already heard them," he said. "I've been trudging through mountain roads with the Seeker for forever, or at least it feels that way."

"As a rogue, a storyteller, or an unwelcome tagalong?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "As a prisoner, mostly. The Seeker wanted to know where one of my friends had gotten off to; I wish I knew. Her disappointment was kinda... threatening."

Tony relaxed her shoulders and adjusted the straps of her pack. "Oh, did she interrogate you, too? That's a cool thing to have in common."

He smiled at the horizon. "We should start calling it 'the Chantry Welcome.' Everyone's doing it these days."

"Are you still a prisoner?" Tony kicked a rock out from the middle of the road. "Time off for good behavior, maybe?"

"Not quite." He touched his hand to Bianca's hilt with the love someone else would use to pat the head of a favorite dog. "I'm too useful to keep in irons forever, and she needed to recruit fighters instead of throwing them in jail for getting mouthy."

"That's great news," said Tony, meaning it. "I didn't really like jail. Drafty."

"And the chairs! So uncomfortable."

"Right?"

The time passed in much the same way for an hour. Varric had a way of putting Tony at ease, mostly because he was friendly enough to explain all the weird shit she kept seeing. The not-cows were called druffalo, and they weren't going to eat her. That plant was medicinal, and that was why Solas was harvesting it. Yes, potions were a real thing. Potions were part of why Tony had survived her first attempt at closing the Breach.

"And potions are magic?" Tony's fingers itched for her pen, but there was no way she could walk and write at the same time.

"Yeah." Varric pulled out a small glass bottle, full of a cherry-red liquid that ran down the insides of the bottle like wine. "Elfroot, like what Solas just harvested, goes into this. The plant isn't magic, but the reaction is."

"So it's a magical solution?"

Varric raised an eyebrow. "To some stuff. It can't bring back the dead, or anything."

"No--like, solution, as in a fully-blended mixture of two or more things. Like how salt and water makes a saline solution." She saw Varric's eyes glaze over. "No?"

"Look, I know a lot of things, but not much about magical theory."

"Antonia speaks of science, not magic." Tony jumped, and discovered that Solas was much, much closer to the two of them than he'd been before. "My apologies," he said. "I did not mean to scare you."

"No worries," she said, awkward again. Solas wasn't prickly, exactly--he wasn't rude or cruel, just off-putting. He seemed to be an arm's length from reality at all times, as if pedestrian things like weather or shoes were beneath his notice. She had no idea what to expect from him. She didn't know what to expect from any elven apostate, though, so maybe this was more of a "her'' problem. Regardless, seeing him reminded her of her strange nightmare, and she had no idea how to bring that up in casual conversation.

"To answer your question in more detail, just as steel is a homogenous blend of iron with coal, what is called a healing potion is a mixture of elfroot, distilled water, and occasionally the essence of dawn lotus. If elfroot is brewed as a tea, it has some beneficial properties, but in order to create a potion, it must be subjected to a more complex process that differs depending on the region."

Tony's pace slowed, fascinated by Solas' explanation. "Okay. Right. So--like additives, and stuff?"

He nodded. "Additives to increase its potency, or even to change its color. Some are simply fashionable, and have no impact on the potion's efficacy."

She considered that, weighing the information in her mind against what little she knew about distilling things like alcohol. Was there such a thing as eighty-proof health potion? After a moment, she said, "Steel is iron and carbon, I'd thought."

Solas' face, already calm, warmed a few degrees. "Indeed. But carbon is not the most common word, and I did not want to add to your confusion."

"That's fair." Tony, a complete fish out of water, had very little pride left to bruise. "It's kind of amazing that steel is the same here as it is back home." Solas tilted his head in question, so Tony continued. "Thedas... not that I've seen all of Thedas, not even close--Haven, then. In Haven, steel is made from carbon and iron, snow falls from the sky, and people ride horses to get from place to place. California is different in lots of ways, but the... the chemical things, the basic agricultural things, even the animal husbandry is weirdly similar. But we aren't on the same planet as where I'm from, because there are two moons and there's magic. So..." She frowned, trying to find her own point in the mess of examples she'd just given. "I'm lucky? I guess? That things aren't as alien as they could be?"

Solas nodded, eyes scanning the trees. Looking out for danger, perhaps. "An optimistic perspective."

"That's a first," said Tony. "I'm not usually considered an optimist, I'm just--like, I have a pen, but it's not the kind of pen I want. It's messy and fussy and I'm gonna get ink everywhere. Still, a long time ago, someone on Earth and someone on Thedas saw the same need and made the same invention to suit the same purpose." She pushed her hair out of her eyes. "How large is Thedas, to have two moons in its orbit? How far away is the sun? Does water boil at the same temperature? How can you understand what I'm saying? How can Ambassador Montilyet speak a language so similar to Spanish? Is this--is it crazy, to think about this?"

"No, though considering it for too long risks making you crazy."

She huffed a laugh. "It's a little late for that, I think."

Solas' mouth tilted up at the ends. Tony was so surprised that it took her a second to read it as a smile.

Over the next few hours, Solas and Tony fell into a surprisingly easy rhythm. Tony had thousands of questions, and if they were thought-out enough, Solas would answer them. He wouldn't have made a great teacher, she thought privately--not enough objectivity, too much Socratic method--but he was clearly brilliant and didn't mind the huge gaps in her knowledge. He explained the relationship between magic and the Fade, which made Tony's head spin.

"So magic is informed by will?"

"Yes," he said.

"And potions involve magic, but using them doesn't require magic?"

"Correct."

"So if I distill elfroot or however that works--if I make a potion, and it is effective, did I just 'do' magic?"

He gave her that shadow of a smile again. "That is philosophy, and not a question we can answer here."

"Can you use potions in the Fade?"

And so on. By the time the afternoon light had started to dim and they'd set up a small camp, Tony's mind was buzzing.

Varric had not stuck around for Solas' lecture. He'd bounced between bothering Cassandra and, when she shouted him off, poking fun at whatever topic Tony and Solas had been discussing at the time. It helped Tony to remember to take breaks, but only barely. She felt like an empty vessel, walking around this world she could barely begin to understand. Solas was an expert in fields of study she hadn't even known existed, and while it was fascinating and inspiring, it was also kind of terrifying. Talking with him had illuminated just how much she didn't know, and worse, how much she must not know she didn't know.

That night in camp, he sat and stared into the fire, bowl of dinner forgotten on her knee. Varric approached, smiling wryly. "You okay, Tony?"

"What?" She looked up, and then back to the fire. "Yes. Maybe? I'm getting there."

"Loaded question, I know." He sat on the log beside her, considering the stars above them. "Chuckles' lecture rub you the wrong way?"

She looked at him again, smile spreading over her face. "'Chuckles'?"

Solas, from the other side of the fire, cut in. "A clever nickname, Master Tethras. I thank you."

"It's not like he never smiles, Varric," agreed Tony. Then, she lowered her voice to whisper, "I think he's embarrassed about his dimples."

Varric looked up at her, barely hiding a grin. "He has dimples?"

Solas sat up straighter, affronted. "I am right here."

Tony quickly nodded to Varric, but decided to change the subject. "I think I'm still trying to piece things together. Solas, thanks so much for today--you've been incredibly patient."

He tilted his head, a kind of shoulderless shrug. "Not at all. I find it fascinating to discuss reality with someone who has a unique perspective."

She couldn't tell whether or not he was being a dick, and so had to take the comment at face value. "I'm glad you think so."

He considered her from across the campfire. "However, I must admit, I am far more interested in an exchange. What of your world, Antonia?"

Tony took a deep breath and slowly released it. She should have seen this coming--Solas didn't acquire all his knowledge from being incurious. "It's been... thinking about it has been weird." An obvious understatement, but she didn't know what else to say. Her memories of home felt too hot to touch. "Is there something in particular you'd like to know?"

"It is clear that you are an educated person. Was there a focus to your study?"

Somehow, he'd managed to ask the one question that made her smile instead of tear up. "Yeah. Literature, actually. English Lit, but I bounced around."

Varric leaned his elbows on his knees. "I'm listening."

Tony smiled and rolled her eyes, picking at her thumb's cuticle as she thought. "I'm not going to explain this right, but... you know. Who else are you going to ask?" She cleared her throat. "Where I'm from, there's this 'canon' of western literature, and I've studied it for... Jesus, twelve years, more or less. As an amateur, definitely more. Etymology and linguistics, too, but I couldn't get too far in that area beyond the funny anecdotes. Stories as time capsules, I guess. Fiction as a reflection of the time it was written." She winced, and looked to Varric. "That sounds really dry, sorry."

"No, no," he said. "I wouldn't have written Hard in Hightown without living in Kirkwall when I did. I can see the connections to be made."

Solas said, "Was it your practice to memorize stories? That is somewhat common here, among the educated."

"Oh," she sighed, blowing out her cheeks. Once upon a time, she would have bragged about her strength of recall, but that was before she'd completely forgotten what had happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. "I mean, probably.  Not often on purpose, but when you write a dozen pages about a single love poem, you're gonna--"

There was a clatter from Cassandra's tent, metal on metal, like a sword clattering against a sheath. In seconds, she appeared with a wool coat tugged over her shirt, breastplate clearly left inside. Without preamble, she sat on the edge of the log Solas had previously occupied alone.

A beat of silence. Then, Varric said, "Hey, there, Seeker."

"You studied," she said, then started again. "I heard from my tent--you studied the poetry of your world?"

Tony looked at Solas, but he'd gone blank again, the way a surprised tortoise would retreat into its shell. "Yeah," Tony said slowly. "I did."

Another silence. Cassandra simply stared at Tony, waiting for... something.

Tony cleared her throat. Instead of asking the obvious, What do you want? She asked, "Is there something in particular you'd like to hear, Seeker Penteghast?"

"Oh, anything," she said, bizarrely nonchalant. At Tony's incredulity, she said, "I am curious. Is that so bizarre?"

Maybe not. Tony would certainly be curious about a Martian's favorite poem, if given the opportunity to wonder. So, Tony cleared her throat, and prefaced her recitation by saying, "This one's by one of the most famous poets who ever wrote in English." Taking a moment to order the words, she began. "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun..."

When she finished, Solas was smiling, the dimple in his cheek deepened by the shadows the fire made. "Let us hope his lady shares his sense of humor."

"I've gotten kicked out of bed for less," agreed Varric.

"That was beautiful," said Cassandra, voice slightly breathless. "Who wrote that?"

"His name was William Shakespeare. He lived hundreds of years ago. And," she added, "if you want beautiful, you're gonna want Sonnet 18."

Cassandra's eyes were sparkling. Tony couldn't help smiling back. Who would have thought?

Tony said, "Would you like to hear--"

"Yes," said Cassandra. Then, a bit pink in the face, she added, "Please."

Tony took a moment to savor the feeling of having such an interested audience, and then began. "Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely, and more temperate..."

By the end of it, Cassandra had her mouth behind both of her hands, as if holding in her voice.

Tony cleared her throat, feeling the embarrassed pleasure coming off of Cassandra in waves. "I know more, but I--it's easiest for me to remember things by writing them down, and I don't want to mix up words and ruin the meter."

"Oh," sighed Cassandra. "Then, maybe tomorrow...?"

Tony, heroically, did not laugh. Instead, she nodded. "More love poetry, or something else?"

"I vote love poetry," said Varric. "This has been very educational, Tony."

Cassandra nodded, as did Solas. Tony raised an eyebrow at the latter, but he only said, "It is a popular subject for a reason."

"Love poetry it is," said Tony. "Shakespeare has hundreds, not that I know them all. And Neruda doesn't always rhyme in translation, but he's amazing."

"I look forward to it," said Cassandra, clearly understating.

-

The next night was more Shakespeare, and the night after that, Yeats. Solas seemed oddly particular about what a poem should be--namely, highly rhythmic, structured in couplets, and about classic things like love or valor. Varric didn't mind blank verse, but he took issue with some word choices--"If a poet uses 'said,' he's leaving money on the table." Cassandra absorbed it all, the more saccharine, the better.

"Do you have a favorite?" Cassandra asked after letting Tony write in her journal for an hour or so. This had become the routine; without that hour of writing, Tony didn't feel confident enough to recite anything.

"I do," said Tony, immediately hesitant. "I don't think you'd like it."

"Oh?" Cassandra scooted closer to Tony. "Why not?"

Tony sighed through a smile. How to explain? "It's a love poem," she began, "by an incredible poet, but it's... I just don't think you'd like it, that's all." Tony looked at Cassandra's eager expression and realized she'd said that all wrong. "I'm not trying to be a tease, Seeker Penteghast. I'm being serious."

Varric and Solas were leaning over the fire, Varric stoking it and Solas ladling out his dinner from the pot. Varric said, "You've gotta tell us now. It'd be cruel not to."

Shit. Tony scratched her scalp, feeling awkward. "This sort of--it's related to something I don't know a lot about, in terms of Thedas and the Chantry."

Solas sat on her other side. "It is critical of religion?"

"Maybe?" She closed her journal and closed her bottle of ink. "I don't know enough about Andrastian teachings to say."

"I can answer your questions," suggested Cassandra. "I was raised and educated in line with the Chantry."

Tony winced. "That's... I think that's worse." She picked at the dull end of her quill, thumb rubbing the tiny remnant of feather there. "What I'm saying is, it's a bit--it's, uhh. Sexual?"

Awkward silence, absent for the past few days, returned with a vengeance to their tiny camp. Solas began to eat his dinner in silence; he might as well have been sitting alone. Varric coughed. Cassandra wasn't quite frozen, since her blood had to move to color her face that red.

"This is what I mean," continued Tony, tone exasperated. "I didn't grow up here; I don't know how taboo sex is. In California, sex is incredibly taboo, but only in some situations--we flip-flop between extremes depending on a bunch of different factors. I know y'all have it, because you aren't the only human, dwarf, and elf I've seen, but I--believe it or not," she said, almost laughing at herself, "I was trying not to make you uncomfortable."

"It depends," said Solas, voice light and nearly monotonous, "on the culture, of course. However, as you can no doubt guess, it is considered a sensitive topic to many."

"I figured," said Tony. "And Seeker Pentaghast, you basically grew up in a Chantry, so I thought, you know, maybe not."

"I am not a child," she said. She was pink-faced, but determined. "The other poetry you have shared has been wonderful. I would like to hear a poem you particularly enjoy."

Tony sighed, and focused on the fire. The light from the flames dimmed everything else, and made it easier for her to talk. "If you get embarrassed, it's your fault," she warned. When no one spoke up, she continued. "This one doesn't have a title, and it's by a man named Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī. He was born a long, long time ago, in a country that my country... doesn't like." Cassandra made a frustrated noise at Tony's censorship. "That my country is trying to destroy," she amended. "And I don't agree with that, and I--that's not what we're talking about right now, and it's a long story, anyway. All I should say is, Rūmī was a scholar, a poet, and a religious man, and his writing..." She picked at a loose thread in her trousers, searching for the words. "He was a deeply spiritual person, and he saw his love for someone else to be equal to his love for God. He felt so deeply, all the time, about everything. I don't speak the language he wrote in, so I just know the translations, but..."

Tony paused, and Solas spoke up. "But they resonate regardless."

"Yeah." Tony cleared her throat, and recited:

“Without you the instruments would die.

One sits close beside you. Another takes a long kiss.

The tambourine begs, Touch my skin so I can be myself.

Let me feel you enter each limb bone by bone,

that what died last night can be whole today.

Why live some soberer way, and feel you ebbing out?

I won't do it.

Either give me enough wine or leave me alone,

now that I know how it is

to be with you in constant conversation.”

The group took a moment to consider the words. Varric was the first to speak: "That's it? I thought it'd be dirtier, you ramped up to it for so long."

Solas shook his head. "It is powerful, but it is not what many would consider true poetry."

Tony huffed a laugh. "Yeah, I know. 'It doesn't even rhyme! What's the point?'"

A line formed between his brows. "It is not so simple."

"I know," repeated Tony. Steeling herself, she looked to Cassandra.

Cassandra did not look scandalized. She was staring into the fire, as well, deep in her own thoughts. Sensing Tony's gaze, she looked up, eyebrows raised. "It is powerful," she agreed. "And... it is almost sad."

"It's an ultimatum," said Tony. "He can't love less than absolutely." She shrugged. "That's what I take from it, anyway."

Cassandra considered her. "You are a very romantic person, Lady Antonia."

Tony was shocked into laughter. "I--what? Okay."

Varric leaned forward. "Hey, if you ever want to publish any of these under your name, I know people."

Cassandra turned on him, furious. "Don't be crass, Varric."

He held up his hands. "What? Not all of us can be independently wealthy, Seeker. Anyway, who's gonna call her out? Shakespeare?"

Relieved, Tony leaned back. Solas finished his dinner, and quietly put his bowl aside. He said, "It is not simply structure that concerns me."

"I know, Solas," she insisted, "but you still like a rhythmic meter, and there's nothing wrong with that, but it's hard to make work in translation." She blinked, realization dawning. "Does--what does the Elven language sound like?"

He looked at her, quizzical. "As opposed to what is referred to as the 'common tongue?'" He looked up, searching for inspiration. He gestured to a tree-- "Adhal." Where the sun had set-- "Elgara." To her-- "Falon."

She smiled, feeling somehow victorious. "One-two, one-two. You know, Spanish--my other language--it has a different rhythm to English, or the common tongue, or whatever. If it's your first language, the rhythm of other languages sounds wrong. Like a waltz when you were expecting, I don't know, a two-step." Solas simply looked at her, waiting patiently for her to make her point. "What I mean is, I think you might like sonnets because they use the same structure as Elvish, even though the language they're written in doesn't have the same rules. A happy accident, maybe."

He considered her. "Or the poetic structure to which you refer was invented to be used in Elvhen."

Tony nodded. "That would make a lot of sense. It was never meant for modern English, back home--it was an ancient invention, we just sort of--" she mimed shoving something into an overfull suitcase. "You know?"

He dimpled at her. "I do."

-

Tony was not accustomed to night watches, but she was accustomed to getting six hours of sleep at maximum, so it was not too difficult of a transition. She preferred taking the latest watch, meaning she'd be up to watch the sun rise over the pine trees. One morning, she'd been distracted from her writing by simply staring at the trees, wondering how they could really be Earth-like pines--how was that possible? Were there blueberries in Thedas, too? Were there lions, and tigers, and bears? In the pre-dawn light of day, she couldn't shut out the questions in her mind.

Perhaps her arresting curiosity was due in part to fatigue. She was unaccustomed to walking miles for days on end, and it was starting to affect her dreams.

Her dreams, tinged in the same sickly green as the Breach, had become chaotic and strange. Upon waking, she would remember them only in flashes: corpses, fires, high towers made of stone. 

The only dream she could remember in more detail was one where Solas visited again. He looked up at the stone towers in her mind, visibly unimpressed. "A poor representation of the Temple," he said, as if she'd submitted her dream for him to grade.

"Is this not an incredibly invasive thing to do, in your culture?" Tony, wearing a full suit of plate armor, put her hands on her hips. "Because it is in mine. What are you doing here?"

He stood at the base of an enormous green bonfire, hands behind his back, posture relaxed. "I have been eager to resume our conversation about dreams and reality," he said. "I thought, perhaps, you had put it from your mind, believing it to be a more mundane occurrence."

Tony clanked and huffed at him. "Hello, Solas," she said, adopting an exaggerated casual air. "I had a dream about you, the other night. No, not that kind. Anyway, what do you have to say for yourself?"

He frowned. She could practically read his thoughts through his eyes--confusion, then realization. His eyebrows raised to a hairline that wasn't there. "Ah."

"I didn't think you'd take silence as an invitation to do it again, either." She crossed her arms. "What do you want?"

"I did not anticipate your reaction," he said. He sounded annoyed about it.

She shrugged. Clink, clink. "Why'd you think you'd be able to?"

His frown deepened, eyes flicking down to her platemail. "If you dislike wearing armor so much, why do you insist upon it here, of all places?" At her visible incomprehension, he sighed. "We are in the Fade, Antonia. This continuous torture of yourself is purposeless."

If Tony hadn't seen magic before, she would have laughed at him. As it was, Solas was the authority on so many things, and he'd given her no reason to doubt him about this. He was pushy, and haughty, and had what could most charitably be described as "boundary issues," but he hadn't lied to her about anything so far.

She closed her eyes, took a breath, and remembered.

There was a bar in the city, right on Market street, that had a typewriter in the window. It was too expensive to go very often, but sometimes they'd have singers all dolled up to look like Julie London or Peggy Lee, singing smokey songs that transformed the room into a speakeasy, making the money worth it. Red curtains along the walls, white leather chairs, brass fixtures and low lights. No windows--the only way in was down, down, down a red-carpeted staircase, leaving the noise of San Francisco up and away.

Tonight, there was a live band, all suited up and kitted out. The lead singer of a trio was dressed in a champagne-colored dress. Tony sat at the bar, rolling up her shirtsleeves, and listened to the woman start to croon: "Stars shining bright above you..."

She strode behind the bar and tossed a fluffy white towel over her shoulder. She looked over the shelves of bottles in front of her, trying to place every single label. She'd heard that it was impossible to read in dreams, but here, she didn't seem to be having any trouble.

The barstool behind her creaked as someone sat down. She turned and saw Solas in the clothes she'd imagined for him: pinstriped trousers, white shirt. No vest, no tie--no need; it was late, and she literally couldn't imagine him wearing something so stuffy and formal. Simple lines on broad shoulders. If it wasn't broken, she wasn't gonna fix it.

"Impressive," he said, unbuttoning his own cuffs. "Though all you have truly accomplished is a signal to Desire that you are potential prey."

"Thanks, Solas," she said, smiling falsely. "How nice. What'll ya have?"

He gave the offerings a quick glance. "What would you recommend?"

"Depends." She moved to the sink behind the bar, washing her hands in preparation of serving him. "What would you like to see? Sweet? Strong? Complicated?"

He was not paying attention, looking away from the bar to scan the room. She tried to see what he saw: opulence, tight clothing, whinnying laughter from drunks. He asked, "Is this place important to you?"

She tilted her head to one side and then the other, considering. "Yes and no? Mostly, it's just the first place that came to mind." She picked up a cardboard coaster, spinning it in her fingers before dropping it in front of him. "Feels weird to know I'll never be back."

He hummed, eyes now on the performers. When he caught on to the words they were singing, he sighed.

"Come on," she urged. "You think it's funny."

"I think it is ridiculous," he said, but his voice had no edge to it. 

He still hadn't ordered anything, so she set about making herself something strong, dropping whatever struck her fancy into a Boston shaker. "Sweet dreams that leave all worries--"

"I can hear her perfectly well, Antonia." 

She picked up the shaker and made a racket with the ice, just to be annoying. She could not feel the cold, but she could see the steel fog up. "Are you seriously not going to apologize to me?"

He looked at her, surprise plain on his face. "Apologize?"

She took a moment to let the angry urge to paint him with her drink settle, and began straining her concoction into a rocks glass. "You come into my dreams without asking," she said. "Twice. You say that my nightmares are boring, which is rude, I don't care where you're from. You, I guess, decide to teach me about lucid dreaming in the Fade by insulting what I show you. There's gotta be a way for you to make your point without being such an asshole, Solas." She glared at him. "What is your point?"

As she'd explained, his mouth had pursed into a thin line. He looked away from her into the crowd that she had conjured, no doubt silently judging what she'd done with the lights. She took a nothing-sip of her nothing-drink and turned her frown to the shiny bar.

"There is so much you do not know," he said, finally. "The Fade has been the focus of my studies for nearly all my life. To see you use it as you have been--in nightmares and sadness--when it can be so much more... It disappointed me." He had a glass of ruby red wine in his hand, now, and he considered it, his long, pale fingers wrapped around the bowl. "You have more control than you may realize."

She felt like they were having two different conversations. "Sorry for, what, not using the Fade like you do? For being confused about a brand new thing in a slew of brand new things? If you don't tell me what you want, of course I'm going to disappoint you."

"You are unique in this world," he said. Coming from him, it didn't sound like a compliment.

"Which makes your expectations even more doomed," she countered. "Wanna tell me what's got a hypothetical bee in your proverbial bonnet, Solas? Or do I have to guess?"

"You are the victim of a terrible mistake," he said, voice sharp. He brought his glass to rest on the coaster Tony'd given him, something dark in his eyes. "Whatever happened at the Conclave, no one expected that it would summon a being from an entirely different world. The way you interact with the Fade, the way you interact with the people here--it is..." He caught her eye, and the intensity of his gaze nearly frightened her. It was a mask she had not seen him wear. Or, perhaps, it was what he looked like when his mask was no longer on. "While you were unconscious, I studied the mark on your hand, as well as your connection to the Fade. It was, and is, unlike anything I have seen before."

Tony looked at him. She took in his flinty expression, the hunch of his shoulders, his elbows resting on the bar. She looked out beyond him, considering the shades she'd used to populate this dream. When she returned her eyes to him, he no longer looked so angry, but there was still a crease between his eyebrows.

"I had thought you Tranquil," he confessed. "Yet here you are, manipulating the Fade with the expertise of a highly skilled mage."

Clearly, he wanted something. Clearly, he wasn't going to get it from her. Not like this.

"Where I'm from," she said, voice false and light, "I wouldn't answer any questions without a warrant."

He said, "Why do you hide your magic?" It sounded like an accusation. "Your mark is not the sole source of magical energy within you, and yet I have never seen you cast, not even in self-defense."

Mentally, Tony hit a wall. Magic, on top of everything else? There was only so much crazy she could reasonably be expected to swallow. "I'm not a mage," she said, exasperated.

"You are," he insisted. "How could you not know? Can you not feel it?"

She moved to the POS and pushed a few buttons on the screen, erasing his bill. "Drinks are on me. You can find your own way home, right?"

He boggled at her. "You are paying? Here?"

"Seemed like the right thing to do." She gave Solas a curt nod. "In case this hasn't been made clear to you already: do not come back into my head. You are not invited." She took a step back. "See you in the morning."

As she walked up the stairs back to the street, the lights and colors faded behind her. She did not look back to see if the barstool dematerialized with Solas still on it, but she really fucking hoped it did.

Chapter Text

Tony was up the next morning for her watch without needing to be roused by someone else. After she had left the San Francisco bar in her mind, she'd found sleep difficult to maintain. Without the Breach visible in the sky to give her motivation, the soggy, misty forest wasn't the distraction she needed it to be. She looked out into the trees, clutching her cloak closer around her, and lost herself in thought.

She didn't have enough information, was the thing. She didn't know if all elven apostates were so persnickety and rude, nor could she guess what Solas might want her to do. Putting herself in his shoes was impossible, and not only because he didn't wear them.

Last night's dream stuck with her, and she began worrying at it like a loose tooth. As the sun broke over the distant horizon and gradually lit the sky, she tried to think of what she might say to him to ease the tension she knew would be coming that morning. He was the sort of person who would maintain silence unless he could think of the right thing to say; that was the only thing she knew about him, really. She frowned at a specific leaf on a tree branch, wondering if she had the ability to freeze it solid from where she sat.

There was a rustle in the darkness, and thought instantly fled Tony's mind. In its absence, fear thrummed through her. She held her breath, ears straining, trying to hear anything to make sense of the noise. Feeling manic, she envisioned a single fluffy bunny being the cause, and tried to make herself relax. When she heard another rustle, accompanied by a strange glint in the darkness, she knew it could be no bunny. Unless bunnies in Thedas wore armor and stalked their prey.

"Cassandra," she whispered. Then, regaining her voice, she called, "Cassandra!"

Tony didn't know what "keeping watch" meant, beyond being bored and having a few hours alone. Now that there was a genuine concern, she was angry with herself. She should have asked. They should have made contingency plans. There should have been a code word that meant, "I saw something, and maybe it's nothing, but I'm terrified."

Within seconds, Cassandra was out of her tent, sword in hand and frown on face. The early dawn acted as a smoke machine, making her scruffy appearance look far more dramatic. "What?" Her voice was rough with sleep. "What is it?"

Tony pointed. "A glittering something. There."

"Get in the tent," said the Seeker. At Tony's confusion, she explained, "Wake the others and stay out of sight."

Grateful for clear instructions, Tony moved to the men's tent. There was no door to knock on, which hadn't occurred to her. She didn't want to just rush in--but this was an emergency, wasn't it? Or was it just a precaution? Maybe Tony was simply tired and thought she'd seen something, or--

Something in the trees growled, then yelled. A man's voice, and angry.

Tony rushed into the men's tent. "Rise and shine! Emergency! Wake up!"

Neither Varric nor Solas were fully naked, nor even mostly undressed. Before Tony's eyes could fully adjust to the darkness, both men had their weapons out and were crouched on their cots. Solas was the first to speak. "What has happened?"

Before Tony could explain, there was the crash of steel on steel outside. Tony jumped, feeling shaky. "I saw something," she blurted. "In the woods. Cassandra's fighting." She shook her head, annoyed with herself. She knew that she was messing this up, and Cassandra was alone, out there. "Please help?"

Solas and Varric left the tent, both looking determined and capable. Tony crossed her legs, laced her fingers together, and waited.

The sounds of combat seemed louder than they had up the mountain near the Temple. Maybe the snow had muffled them, or the shock. Not seeing the fighting was awful, as well--not being able to know whether the grunting and clanging was good or bad, or whether the hiss of fire was aimed at their raiders or her current hiding place. All Tony could do was remain where she was, straining to hear the voices of her travelling companions, praying to a God she wasn't sure she believed in for their safety.

After untold minutes, there was a final squelch, and someone heaved a sigh. Varric said, "Not my favorite kind of wake-up call."

Tony heard footsteps in the dirt, then squinted as the flap of the tent let in the thin sunlight. Cassandra was silhouetted against the dawn, frown still firmly in place. "It is done," she said. "Are you hurt?"

Tony shook her head. "Are you?"

"No. Nor are the others."

Tony clambered out of the tent and took in the new layout of the camp. Her gaze snagged unwillingly over five dead bodies. Two looked to be mages, staves still in their hands and spellbooks open to the wind. Three were armored, and one had an enormous shield, as big as a car door. Even in the low light, she could see the flaming sword engraved on its front.

"The Templars thought we were with the mages," said Cassandra, wiping down her sword with a bit of cloth. "And the mages did not wish to talk."

Tony breathed through her mouth, dreading the scent of their blood. A misunderstanding. That's all this had been. One misunderstanding, and five people were dead.

Two hours later, those first losses barely seemed worth remembering.

The trees thinned as the ground sloped up, and Tony could see smoke in the distance. Bodies, as well--speed bumps with arrows sticking out of their clothes, or greasy stains in the dirt. One person had been shattered, frozen solid and then struck. It had started to melt, and only a leg was still encased in the ice. The rest had turned into bloody sludge.

At the top of a rise was an Inquisition camp, the eye-sun-sword banner fluttering in the breeze. Tony met Scout Harding, a beautiful dwarf with long chestnut hair up in a complex, braided bun. She had freckles, and a nose that had a bit of snub to it. Tony focused on these features, trying to dismiss the ringing in her ears.

"Harding?" Varric smiled. "You ever been to Kirkwall's Hightown?" Dozens of people were dead, but he could still come up with a joke.

Tony exchanged a few words with Harding, but had she been asked after, she couldn't have said what they were. Her memory was snagged on the people left to rot on the hillside. As they descended into the madness of the valley, Solas drifted away from Cassandra and Varric to walk beside her.

It took Tony a moment to remember why she might care about that. It wasn't even noon, and yet the dream felt like it had happened days ago.

"They have seen such destruction before," he murmured. She could barely hear him over the shouts in the distance. The ringing of swords against armor. The sounds of battle, she realized. They were headed into a battlefield.

Tony focused on breathing and putting one foot in front of the other. "That's horrible." Solas glanced at her, not understanding. "No one should have to be used to this."

He looked forward, into the smoky distance. "Their experience has hardened them. Given them protection against pain."

"They aren't crabs," she snapped. Solas' next glance was longer, and more confused. Tony bit out a short sigh. "I mean--if it were necessary, that would be one thing. But it isn't. None of this should be happening in the first place."

Solas' brow furrowed. "You mean to say the mages should not have rebelled?"

Her anger was sudden, and difficult to keep down. "I mean to say that death is unacceptable, no matter who's dishing it out. Don't put words in my mouth, please."

Again, she watched him retreat into his blank shell. They continued to move side by side, but he did not try to speak with her. As they descended into chaos, he cast a barrier around them both, and began to destroy any who would approach them with violence.

The tent had been awful, but this was nearly unbearable. Solas' barrier was like misted glass, giving the battlefield another layer of smoky confusion as Tony crouched low to the mud. Still, she could see the destruction, and she found she could not close her eyes to it. She saw blood pulled from a man by an upward sweep of Cassandra's sword, the arc of it glittering with red. She saw Varric pin a mage to his neighbor with a crossbow bolt, and how both people fell into a puddle of icy muck, unable to untangle themselves before a Templar brought his sword to their necks. She saw Solas, face expressionless, summon ice from the ground up, turning a Templar from a raging murderer into a statue of the same.

Tony began to count. Not bodies, but seconds, some measure that time was passing. She counted her breaths, and considered how many fingers she had, how many knuckles. A man screamed, then sputtered, drowning from a cut throat. She did not close her eyes, but she did not truly see him fall.

Time passed, and the massacre became a victory. Solas did not carry Tony, but he did follow  her as she stumbled into the newly-acquired Inquisition camp at the Crossroads. She sat on a wooden crate and considered her boots. They weren't her Doc Martens. They were made of brown leather, and the left one was half a size bigger than the right. Whose boots had these been, before? Had she been wearing a dead woman's clothes this whole time? Where had the cloak Cassandra had found for her come from, if not from off a corpse?

Solas stood by her. Tony did not need to look up to know that he was scrutinizing her. She didn't know what he was looking for, and didn't feel like asking. After a moment, he released a breath, almost a sigh, and went to confer with Cassandra.

Tony looked at her nails. She would need to cut them, soon, and she didn't know what tool to use. Tiny scissors, maybe? Were those common, here? She didn't want to have to chew them shorter, not when they had so much mud hardening under them. She considered the problem until her heart stopped pounding in her ears--seconds or minutes, she couldn't be sure.

"Hey." This was Varric, approaching her after talking with an Inquisition agent. "Tony. You okay?"

She inhaled, counted to five, then let it go. What a question. "I will be," she promised. She didn't know if time would make a liar out of her. "What's up?"

He pointed up an incline. Tony saw a few people dressed in the red and white of the Chantry, as well as a few people resting on cots. "Mother Giselle," he said. His eyes flicked over Tony's face and shaking hands. "When you're ready."

Tony nodded. Then, as if from far away, she moved her face to make a smile. "Thanks. And--thanks."

Varric smiled back at her, an eyebrow quirked. "Why, and why?"

"For pointing her out, and for..." She pulled her eyes back into focus. Varric was taller than her, like this. "Protecting me. Keeping me safe, all the way here. I know I'm useless in a fight."

He shook his head, smile going soft. "I thought we'd gone over this already. You close the rifts and go to the meetings, and Bianca and I handle the wet work." 

Tony felt more grounded by the second. "I'll bet you say that to all the extraterrestrials who close holes in the Veil."

"So far," he agreed. He took a step back and nodded to her. "Good luck with the Chantry Mother."

She nodded her thanks instead of voicing it for the third time in a row.

When Tony managed to approach Mother Giselle, it was to see the woman crouched by the cot of a severely wounded man. She exchanged a few words with him, but Tony was too far to hear whether they were words of encouragement or a final blessing. She watched as the woman rose from her knees, cataloguing the intricate hood she wore and the complex gold embroidery of her clothes. She looked like the cleanest person in the Hinterlands.

Tony took in the dramatic lines of Mother Giselle's whimple, and focused on the face framed by the fabric. It was lined with age, brown, and outwardly kind. "You," said the Mother, "must be the one they are calling the Herald of Andraste."

If that was the reason why Tony had led everyone into danger, she was going to be pissed. "Yes. Some people are saying that."

Tony focused on watching this one woman, tracking her eyes as her gaze broke from Tony's. This was easier. Battlefields were all confusion and death, but this conversation, this bizarre negotiation--this, Tony could handle.

"I know something of the Chantry," said the Chantry Mother, apparently adept at understatement. "I know the people who wish to turn this situation to their advantage."

Tony blinked. "The mage uprising?"

The mother shook her head. "The passing of the Divine. There are many who would speak against you in order to gain favor. Many wish to become the next Divine. The Conclave..." Mother Giselle looked down, then back over the many cots. The many people who lay in the cots, blood-stained and quaking. She said, "It was a great loss. A loss that beget further losses."

"You believe that the Chantry could have prevented this." Mother Giselle looked back at Tony, confusion flickering over her face. Tony said, "I don't know what you've heard about me. I'm not, uh. Faithful. The power of the Chantry is kind of--it's news, to me." Fatigue crested over Tony, and she gave up on constructing a persona. "I know that the mages and the Templars are fighting, and I know that there's a hole in the sky. Holy Mother, what would you ask that I do?"

Mother Giselle turned to Tony, shoulders squared against the wind. "I have heard much about you," she said. "There are many stories, most of them easily ignored. But I believe in the mercy of the Maker. If I were to ignore the signs, what sort of Mother would I be?"

If there were a standard Chantry response to that, Tony did not know it. "A logical one," she said. "Nothing about my presence here makes sense."

It wasn't a joke, but it made the Mother smile. "When I contacted the Inquisition, I simply meant to meet you," she said. "Now, I have been satisfied. However, if you do wish to accept my advice--go to Val Royeaux. Speak with the faithful, there." She smiled, soft and, yes, motherly. "The Chantry is not the united front that you, perhaps, imagine."

"Val Royeaux," Tony repeated. Mother Giselle nodded. "Thank you."

The Chantry Mother considered her for another long moment. Tony wondered what she saw. Borrowed clothing? Untamed curls? After a few seconds, Mother Giselle said, "I will go to Haven and provide Sister Leliana with the names of those in the Chantry who would be amenable to a gathering."

Sister, thought Tony. Sister. Leliana is a nun? "I--thank you, Mother Giselle. I appreciate your support."

Mother Giselle left Tony, returning to her rounds among the wounded. Tony took a moment to collect herself. Then, she moved back down the incline to her pack, and recovered her journal, ink, and quill.

There were no rifts at the Crossroads, and therefore no clear job for Tony. Cassandra was talking with an Inquisition agent, and Varric and Solas were speaking with the refugees. Still, Mother Giselle had asked specifically to meet Tony, and had given her advice on how to proceed. That implied Tony had some amount of status, here, and could be relied upon to help. There were people who expected Tony to do something, be something, more than just the one with the magical hand.

Again, she asked herself: what would the real Herald of Andraste do?

The answer felt obvious. Tony found an unmanned pile of wooden crates. She walked up the boxes as though they were stairs, and called out to the murmuring people of the Crossroads. "Greetings from Haven! I am Antonia Gonzalez, and I am here to help. Tell me what you need, and I will note it down and inform the Inquisition. No problem too small, no request too ridiculous--not all will be answered, but all will be listened to. Greetings from Haven! Come and tell me of your needs."

Tony stepped down from the top of the crates, pulled up a crate-chair, and arranged her journal on her crate-table, quill at the ready. She was no fighter, but she could do this. Even if no one took her up on her offer, at least she'd offered at all.

After a minute's silence and confusion, an elven man approached her. "Please," he said, voice worn from use even though the day was yet young. "My wife. She can't breathe."

Tony brought her pen to paper. "What's wrong?"

"She needs a potion," he said. As he explained, a human woman took up a spot in line behind him. "My son, Hyndel--he's joined the cult up in the mountains, but he's the only one who can make it. If she goes too long without it, she'll die."

Tony scratched out her clumsy attempt at Thedosian runes and began to write notes in English. "Right. Your name? Her name? Also--go talk to Solas, that's the mage over there. He knows more of magical healing than I do." She noted all the information she could, then sent the man off with a smile. "Next."

"Hepheba," said the human woman. "And my son--I haven't seen him since the Conclave--"

Hepheba, Tony wrote. She looked up from her notes and gave the woman a gentle smile. "Please, tell me about your son. What was he doing at the Conclave?"

"He was a scribe." The woman looked half a breath from tears. "Please. I--I need to know what happened to him."

"I will ask," said Tony, feather quill skating across the paper. "Do you have an address?" The woman looked blankly confused. Tony considered how to explain, then asked, "Where do you live, and how might a message reach you there?"

Comprehension dawned. "Lake Luthias," she said. "On the Northern shore, past the old water wheel, but--it isn't safe, I don't know when I'll be..."

"If you have the means, I suggest moving to Haven. It's better fortified than here, and if you need food or shelter, I'm sure there's a job you could do for us."

She failed to hide a dubious expression. "Haven... it is several days away on foot, isn't it?"

"Mother Giselle is planning to relocate. Maybe ask her how she means to get there?" Hepheba nodded and stepped away from the desk. She was immediately replaced by a human man with a mustache like a walrus. "Hello, Ser. May I have your name?"

"Tobias," he said. "I've also--my eldest girl was--"

This is how time passed. Tony used her journal to note down two hundred equally deserving questions. She paused only when her pen refused to hold ink. One of the villagers took out a wicked-looking knife and sharpened her quill for her, refusing any payment she offered. "You're doing the Maker's work," he said.

Tony did not know how to respond, other than smiling and nodding.

By the time Tony'd run through everyone, the sun was high in the sky. Cassandra handed her a small square of tack, which Tony ate gratefully, chasing the salty cracker with gulps of water. "Should we head back to Haven," asked Tony, "or keep going?"

"Corporal Vale has tried to make contact with Horsemaster Dennet," said Cassandra, "but he too requires a personal visit from the Herald, it seems."

Tony shrugged. "Whatever blows his skirt up." At the Seeker's disapproving squint, Tony winced. "Sorry. I'm tired, I think."

"That is unsurprising." She looked down at Tony's notes, squinting further. "What manner of cipher is that?"

"English?" She scrawled Cassandra Pentaghast in an empty margin. "That's your name."

Cassandra tilted her head, trying to read it upside down. "Truly?"

"It was this or a bunch of misspelled runes."

The Seeker sighed through her nose. "I suppose..." She cut herself off with a shake of her head. "I suppose we should move on quickly. We have been tasked with several petty matters on behalf of the people here."

Tony stood, pushing her hands into the small of her back to make her spine pop. "What were you going to say?"

She watched a flicker of hesitation cross Cassandra's face. The Seeker said, "I was going to say... I suppose it is logical. Should you truly be from another world, that your writing would look so strange."

Tony nearly snorted. "All that poetry, and you still think I'm making stuff up? That's almost flattering."

"I do not know what to think." She stood back, allowing Tony to extricate herself from the crates. However, instead of looking troubled, her eyes had softened. "But I do know that you have done good work, today."

They shared small smiles, and moved back to their group. For the first time in days, Tony didn't feel like a burden.

-

To Lady Josephine Montilyet, Commander Cullen Rutherford, and Sister Leliana, Whose Last Name I Do Not Know, And Neither Does Seeker Pentaghast, Sorry

Please forgive my spelling in advance. I am still lerning.

Greetings from the Hinterlands. The land here is betiful. There are many mages and Templars killing each other and attmpting to kill us. It has been Things are preeding apace and I am pleased to report that Master Dennet has agreed to work with the Inquisition, assuming we can help him set up watchtowrs. He is concerned about Grand Theft Equine, and I do not blame him. His horses are very nice strong.

We are as yet unharmed. I wish to comnd the most industrious Scout Harding and her team. With their invaluable assstanc we have been able to establish several camps west of the river.

Many people at the Crossroads are in need. As they are now under the protection of the Inquisition, I am curious what we could do for them. Lady Josephine, I have had several conversations with Lady Thrnn about provisions and supply lines, though I must still admit ignornce in many areas. Do we have anything to spare? There are refugees everywhere, many with only the clothes on their backs. Mother Giselle is en route to Haven, and I worry that the Crossroads will kenly feel her loss.

I have been getting akuainted with horse riding. My thighs It has ben interesting.

We intend to return to Haven soon. I will not include the time estimate or route here. Vigilance, advises Seeker Pentaghast.

Thank you for all that you do,

Tony

P.S.: Sister Leliana, has there been any prgress with my request about the mark? I admit that I am It is Any information would be welcome. Thank you.

-

To Our Lady Herald, Antonia Artura Dorotea Gonzalez of California,

We thank you for your report, and eagerly await your return to Haven. Our Commander agrees with the Seeker regarding discretion, though I should note that our correspondence is heavily guarded by Leliana's runners. Leliana should not be underestimated--after all, I have known her for years, and I could not even tell you her last name's initial.

I regret that there is such hardship at the Crossroads. At present, our ability to assist the refugees is limited to our posted soldiers. Mother Giselle has arrived, and spoke of her advice to you. Perhaps, should that meeting go well, we would be able to offer more to those whom we protect.

Reports from Scout Harding have been cautiously optimistic. We have you to thank for that, my Lady Herald.

We eagerly anticipate your return to Haven. There is much to discuss.

Your humble advisor,

Josephine Montilyet of the Inquisition

P.S.: Herald, when I have news, you will be the first to know. Walk in the Maker's Grace. --Leliana

-

All told, Tony and her group did not return to Haven for ten days. There were rifts to close, wolves to root out, demons to kill, and many, many errands to run. Around the campfire, Tony recited Blake, Whitman, and Shelley before she grew bored with poetry and moved on to plays. By the time Tony could see Haven's Chantry in the distance, she'd learned that Solas had absolutely no patience for farce.

"Twins they may be," he said, "but I have never seen a pair of twins who looked as similar as would make Viola's gambit plausible."

"I'll pass that along to William," said Tony.

"And Malvolio--a house steward written to be as stupid as possible. Do all of Shakespeare's plays show the lower classes in such an insulting light?"

"They were written as entertainment for his wealthy patrons, so probably." She gave Solas a smile. "Didn't realize the plight of the proletariat was such a hot-button issue for you."

She watched him try not to roll his eyes at her. It manifested in a twitching muscle in his cheek. "Any man with sense would feel the same."

"Right, right."

This rapport was deceptively easy, considering how awkward Tony still felt around Solas. They'd never discussed that second shared dream, and Tony didn't know how to bring it up. Solas had entered that San Francisco bar with something specific in mind. Tony had to believe that her annoying and then confusing him hadn't been the plan. He hadn't attempted to get back into her mind again, which was good, yet Tony didn't feel like they had any closure. She couldn't wait for Solas to start the conversation, either; he hadn't started any conversations since then, content to hover around blankly and, when asked, say spooky things about the Fade.

Tony waved to the guards posted at the gate, who saluted in return. She bit back a wince.

Solas noticed anyway. "You still are not accustomed to such treatment, Herald of Andraste?"

"I don't think I ever will be." She didn't particularly want to talk about it, though. She pulled her face into a serene expression, and with Solas' musical accent, she said, "Hubris is the sin of heroes, and I do not wish to meet my end crushed under the weight of my own enormous head."

He frowned at her. She smiled back. "I do not sound like that," he said. 

"You do, I'm afraid," she said, still in his voice.

He shook his head, but Tony thought she saw the dimple in his cheek.

Haven wasn't home, but it was a relief to be back anyway. Maybe distance from Solas would help her think of a solution. Tony counted her blessings all the way up the incline to her little cabin: no more early watches, no more hardtack, no more freezing baths in ice melt. She found herself looking forward to seeing Lady Josephine again--she had a million questions, and knew that the Ambassador would have all the answers.

This delicate happiness lasted about twelve seconds.

"Knight-Captain!"

"That is not my title," the Commander snarled. Tony marked his wrathful expression from a distance, and picked up the pace. She didn't want him to lose his head in front of an audience, and he looked to be running low on patience.

Before she got there, Commander Cullen had separated the mages from the Templars, leaving an opening for Tony's favorite person, Chancellor Roderick. The Chancellor clearly enjoyed having the floor, and performed loudly so that everyone could overhear him denounce everything the Inquisition had been working so hard to accomplish.

Pushing down on her annoyance, Tony approached with a smile. "Chancellor," she said, channeling the saccharine attitude she used when dealing with preschoolers. "It's so good to see you again. Staying warm, I hope?"

"Herald," greeted Roderick, sneering as though the word were a curse. "I see you've returned. How did you manage to lead Mother Giselle astray? What promises did you make to her?"

She kept her eyes big and wide, as though she were a terrified Disney princess. "Oh my goodness, why? Is everything all right? What's the matter?"

The Chancellor glared at her. It was obvious that some part of him wished to be a mage, so he might set her on fire just by looking. "I have nothing to say to you."

"Well, if that changes, please do not hesitate to come find me. Your comfort is--" The Chancellor made a disgusted noise, turned on his heel, and somewhat stomped away. "Of the utmost importance to me!" Tony called after him. "Lovely as always, Chancellor! Bye-bye!"

This left Tony with Commander Cullen, the two of them suddenly alone in front of the Chantry doors. He watched Roderick's retreating back with an odd expression. Tony took the opportunity to examine the Commander.

If Tony were to be perfectly honest with herself, she'd admit that she'd been looking forward to seeing him again. She knew that was dumb, of course; Cassandra wanted him to be her swordfighting teacher, something she actively didn't want, and sense dictated that she should keep her distance. Still, she liked to look at him. There was no point lying to herself about that.

He was a soldier, though. He wore plate armor that shined in the blue-white light of the winter sun, topped off with a ruff that gave him a mane like a lion. He stood slightly off-center, easily counter-balancing the weight of the weapon on his hip. When he spoke, it tended to be with a sneer or a shout, and there was that scar on his lip that had healed oddly jagged and silver. Him and his damn sword--and when he walked, he marched, which was beyond strange to Tony.

He's unreal, she thought, and noted his eyes: tawny, like amber. Also a little bloodshot, which worried her. No one should look this tired and be allowed to hold a weapon. He looked just as likely to stab his foot as a hypothetical opponent.

He studied her. "Why do you speak to the Chancellor that way?" It was a question, but his tone was one of demand.

Tony shrugged a shoulder, fighting against her nerves. It wasn't clear whether her internal fluttering was due to his appearance or his residual annoyance. "He hates it," she said. "Was that... is that okay? You looked like--I mean, he was bothering you, so I... um."

Commander Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. "I can't say I don't appreciate that he's gone," he said. "But you shouldn't waste your time with him. He's toothless."

"He was bothering you," Tony repeated. The Commander did not say anything to that. Perhaps there was nothing to say. Tony continued, "Anyway, I'm--I know you probably know this, but I've only just gotten back, so--"

"Of course." He nodded to her. "Once you drop off your things, we shall convene in the Chantry's back room."

Tony blinked. She'd been hoping for a bath and a nap, but apparently those things would have to wait. "Right. Uh, see you in there?"

"Herald," he said, dismissing her.

So Tony, hungry, sweaty, and tired, soon stood around that same damn table once again. For a heart-stopping moment, only she and the Commander were in the room. Tony stared at him, mind totally blank of small talk, for almost four seconds. Thankfully, Lady Josephine entered the room and greeted Tony with a smile and a gentle squeeze on her shoulder.

"Don't hug me," said Tony, giving her a grin. "I still smell like the road."

"Nonsense," she said, though she did take a delicate step back. "It is wonderful to see you safely returned, Your Worship."

Leliana was next through the door, followed by one of her agents. "Herald. You've only just arrived--is there something urgent you wished to discuss?"

Tony raised her eyebrows and looked over at the Commander. She watched his face twist with some uncomfortable emotion. Judging by the pink in his cheeks, it was embarrassment. "You must be tired," he said, as if only just realizing it.

So he was just oblivious, then. That was a good flaw to hold onto, in case his face distracted her. Tony shrugged, and addressed the agent flanking Leliana. "Excuse me, what's your name?"

The agent soluted her. "Ernis, my Lady Herald."

"Ernis, would you mind telling Cassandra about this meeting? No rush, though. She already knows a lot of what I'm gonna report." Honestly, there was no reason for Cassandra to attend the meeting at all, but Tony doubted the Seeker would see things that way.

Once the agent left with the message, Tony looked over at the Commander again. Yes, he was definitely embarrassed. Tony sighed, and then addressed Leliana. "I understand that Mother Giselle had some information for you."

"Indeed." She brought her hands behind her back, standing in a formal but relaxed posture, much like the one that Solas favored when he was lecturing. "It is her opinion that your next venture should be to Val Royeaux, to speak with certain sympathetic members of the Chantry. My agents are already en route."

Tony asked, "Do you have any agents at the Crossroads?" Leliana neither nodded nor shook her head, and so Tony continued. "They have a lot of needs, and I didn't feel up to the task of listing them in a letter. Given, uh." She felt her face heat. "How painful that would have been for you to read."

"There is no need for self-consciousness, my Lady," insisted Josephine. "You are new to the language. It was a noble effort."

She managed a small laugh. "That bad?" Josephine made to apologize or clarify, but Tony waved her off. "No, I'm just kidding. Thank you, Lady Montilyet. I'll keep working on it. For now, though," she said, bringing her hands to the button at her throat, "I do have notes, but I'm going to have to read them to you. I wrote them in English."

Josephine perked up. "I would be very interested to see what your language looks like on paper. I have been..." She blinked rapidly, watching Tony's hands as they moved down the buttons of her shirt. "Your Worship?"

Tony left her shirt half-buttoned and reached between her breasts for the roll of paper she'd shoved in there for safe keeping. It took a minute to negotiate the roll out from the pressure of her breastband, but she managed, unrolling them and squinting at them in the low light. "There are a lot of missing people, apparently," she said. "I wrote down their names, as well as the names of the people who were asking about them. There's also the matter of food, which..." She looked up from her notes, surprised not to hear the scratching of quills.

Josephine was staring at Tony's face with such a blank look of politeness, she must have been screaming inside. Leliana had crossed her arms, one hand up to cover her mouth, and was looking at Commander Cullen. Tony could see why; the Commander looked like he was about to explode into flames. He had the sort of skin tone that made blushing incredibly obvious, but even if he hadn't, he was focusing on a wall sconce as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"Oh," said Tony. Embarrassment surged through her, followed by annoyance. For fuck's sake, they were just boobs. "I--well! The clothes you gave me don't have pockets. I don't know what you want from me."

"I will be sure to find you more utilitarian clothing," promised Josephine, eyes still firmly on Tony's face. "But for now, would you mind...?"

"Putting them away?" Tony put her notes on the table, where they sprang back into a roll, and re-did her buttons. "Note to self, in Thedas, modesty is key."

"Perhaps," said Leliana, "this is a good time to mention what else my agents have been doing."

Tony tugged her shirt back into place, fully dressed once more. The Commander was still looking determinedly away, so she rapped her knuckles on the table twice. "You're safe, Commander. Sister Leliana, you were saying?"

Commander Cullen, still red-faced, attended to the conversation again. Leliana said, "In your absence, I have been working to find evidence to support your story. That you are not from Thedas; that you are from a world beyond the Veil."

Working to disprove her story, really. Tony had no illusions about that. "And what have you found?"

"Truthfully?" Annoyance furrowed her brow. "You have no family. No social connections. No one saw you enter the Conclave, and no one claims to have seen you before the destruction of the Temple. The resources it would take to enter the Temple without witnesses are beyond the capabilities of any of our known enemies."

Tony picked up her notes again, running her thumb along the ragged edge of the papers. "So either I'm telling the truth, or I'm incredibly bad news for the Inquisition." Her lips quirked. "Or both. I could still be both. No news on the mark transfer front, I'm guessing?"

Leliana considered the map, eyes drifting over the iron markers. "The only people we know of who could have managed such an infiltration are the Qunari," she said. "And while we believe the explosion at the Conclave to have been caused by magic, it is possible that gaatlok powder could have been involved."

The Commander was no longer distracted by breasts. He gave Leliana a stern look. "You're certain?"

Leliana almost laughed. "No. I am nowhere close to certain. However, I cannot ignore the possibility, not after Kirkwall."

Tony looked between the two of them, then leaned over to Josephine. "Hey," she said, voice lowered to a whisper, "Who or what are the Qunari?"

Before Josephine could reply, Leliana continued. "Regardless, you are still the one who bears the mark. You were still seen leaving the Fade, ushered out by what many believe to be Andraste herself. Perhaps I am mistaking shadows for something more sinister, and you are indeed telling us the truth."

Tony pulled a page out from her notes. This was a list of missing persons, separated into three even columns. She offered the curling page to Leliana, who took it with a gloved hand and looked it over. When Leliana looked up, Tony said, "I'm many things, but I'm not clever enough to invent a written language."

The Commander stepped closer to Leliana, peering at the page. The Spymaster handed it to him, and he only hesitated for a second before taking it. Tony bit back a sarcastic comment about cooties. He scanned the page with his eyes, possibly trying to pick out a pattern. "This is a list," he said.

Tony had to smile. "What gave it away?"

He grimaced. "The format. What is it meant to say?"

She held out her hand, and the Commander returned the list to her. "The names of people who haven't been seen since the Conclave. Scribes, mostly--there weren't any nobles at the Crossroads. I'd like to read them out to see if any of them ring a bell." At the Commander's uncomprehending look, she rephrased. "To, uh, see if any of you recognize them. Then, I've got some requests for specific goods, and another list of people who'd like to come to Haven but don't feel safe travelling from the Hinterlands without an escort."

The Commander looked surprised. "An escort?"

Tony nodded. "Like what we set up for Mother Giselle."

"Mother Giselle needed that escort. It was an unusual case. We cannot possibly spare the men to have regular missions to the Crossroads."

She had to remind herself that Cullen had not been there, and couldn't really know how chaotic things had been. "Nobles can take care of it themselves, I'll grant you, but not the villagers I saw. They barely have food, let alone weapons. How can we ask them to come here on their own?"

He rested his hands on the pommel of his sword. She knew, logically, that he was not going to draw it over this, but it still put her on edge. He said, "What they choose to do cannot be our responsibility. Our resources are spread too thin as it is."

Tony shrugged, fiddling with her papers. "Okay. I disagree."

Cullen raised an eyebrow. "I'd worked that out. May I ask why?"

"Marquis DuRellion didn't push his claim to Haven because he recognized that this is a holy site for many people. I don't..." She shook her head. "Can we really call this a pilgrimage without caring for the pilgrims? What was I even--I'd thought I was supposed to be recruiting people."

He narrowed his eyes, but dropped them to the map instead of giving Tony further annoyed scrutiny. "Soldiers and agents, yes. Not refugees. How many men do you imagine we have, Lady Antonia? We can't send agents out to act as bodyguards for every person."

Tony began to read off of her list. "Tobias Cooper's eldest daughter was at the Conclave as a scribe. So was Hepheba Nash's only son. Willard Ashdown's farm has been razed, and he lost everything he had in the fire." She looked up from her list, looking the Commander right in the eye. "The Crossroads is meant to be under the Inquisition's protection. What does that mean, if we cannot help these people?"

He looked right back at her. His face was pale, but it was always pale; his expression was detached, professional. Also, annoyingly enough, still handsome. "If these people made it to the Crossroads, then they may well make it to Haven, as well."

"Maybe," agreed Tony, unable to keep a thread of sarcasm out of her voice. The Commander picked up on it, and his frown deepened. She felt her patience fray. "Everyone's killing everyone, out there, but yeah, maybe. Maybe luck will protect them, since we won't."

His eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"Commander," said Josephine, tone almost cloying. "The Herald is doubtless fatigued from her long journey--"

Tony barreled ahead. "If saving lives is an unworthy expenditure of resources, what are any of you doing here?"

Cullen had drawn himself up to his full height, posture dangerously perfect. "Picking up the pieces," he said. "Protecting whatever and whomever we can. Our priority must be the Breach. There will be no end to this war until that's dealt with. I understand you may not like it, but there is absolutely no way we can send routine escorts through the Hinterlands as we currently are."

Tony sucked in a breath through her nose. "Right. Sure."

He looked over her expression and clearly disapproved of what he saw. "I do not say this to be cruel, my Lady."

Her patience snapped like takeout chopsticks. "Oh, blow me, Fabio. You'd have more resources if you stopped trying to prove I'm lying to you."

Cullen was scandalized. Red face, mouth open, eyes wide, the whole thing. If Tony were less angry with him, she would have found his cartoonish response funny. As it was, she needed her full concentration to keep herself from shouting.

Josephine looked at her with wide eyes. Leliana said, "You mean for us to take you at your word without question?"

"Of course I don't," she said. "But other than the ridiculousness of my story, have I given you any reason for doubt?"

She watched as three of the four highest ranking members of the Inquisition conferred with each other without speaking. Leliana's face was the only one Tony absolutely could not read. Josephine looked uncomfortable, and clearly wanted to smooth things over with friendly, meaningless chatter. Cullen looked quietly mutinous, glaring at the map with much the same feeling as Chancellor Roderick had levelled at Tony just twenty minutes ago.

"Look," said Tony, tossing her notes onto the table. "I'm tired of being fucked around."

Josephine's eyelashes fluttered as she blinked, visibly surprised. "Your Worship?"

"Yes," said Tony, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Thank you, my Lady, that's exactly what I mean."

Behind her, the door opened. "Forgive my tardiness," said Cassandra. There was a silence as the room adjusted to her sudden presence. Tone heavy with exasperation, she asked, "What have I missed?"

Tony sighed and waved her to close the door. The Seeker did, then took her place beside Tony around the table and the map. "Cassandra," she asked, "do you believe that Andraste sent me here from another world?"

The Seeker stared at her, clearly caught off-guard. After a moment's thought, she said, "I do not know. I know that you can seal the Breach, but as for the Maker's will, I cannot be sure. No one can."

"Right." Tony put her hands on her hips. "Listen, guys. I need you to know that I am not, and will never consider myself to be, the Herald of Andraste. However, I know how much clout that title gives the Inquisition. I know--" She gestured with her hands, outlining the shape of her frustration. "I know that you need me to pretend, so the Inquisition can help with the Breach. But as far as I'm concerned, it's a convenient lie. After all you've done for me, I can deal with it, but it's still... It fucking sucks."

The Commander looked at her with confusion. "'All we've done' for you?"

Tony began counting on her fingers. "Food," she said, "water, healthcare, lodging, education, literal money--I understand that I'm an investment, and when am I gonna be able to pay you back?" She smiled at the idea that any of her skills would be able to earn her a living in Thedas. "Use the Herald thing as much as you want. I understand it's the price I've gotta pay."

Cassandra, horrified, sputtered her disagreement. "No! Lady Antonia, I would never--we would never put you in such a situation."

A laugh burst out of Tony, almost a bark. It rang out in the room like a gunshot. Tony looked around at their faces, surprised by their surprise. "Cassandra," she said, unable to stop her smile from spreading, "sorry, but you actively wanted to kill me when we first met. I was a prisoner, and I'm nowhere near strong enough to prevent you from making me one again. The Inquisition isn't playing the Game, but it is playing a game, and I'm a useful yet annoying pawn." No one interrupted her, and so she continued. "I'm not an idiot. I want to use my position to help people. If I don't have that leverage, then why am I at these meetings at all? If you don't trust me, keep me in the dungeon and cart me out in chains when there's a rift to close. And don't," she said to Josephine, whose mouth had fallen open in surprise, "say that you'd never do that, because you already have."

"Maker," breathed Cullen. Tony blinked up at him. There was an invisible weight on his shoulders that made him brace against the table. Brow furrowed, he said, "Forgive me. I had not realized the lack of trust was so deep on both sides."

Tony shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest. "Have you ever been imprisoned by a militant religious faction? It's memorable."

He twisted his mouth. "Fair point."

"I'm not asking you to believe me about where I'm from, either. I know exactly how stupid my story sounds, and you aren't stupid people. But if you're not going to take my suggestions seriously, why fucking ask for them?"

Josephine looked pained. "There is no need for such language."

"Ambassador Montilyet, you--all of you--sent me into a war zone for days. I am being as cordial as I fucking can be, so pardon the occasional curse, please."

"How bad," asked the Commander. He wasn't frowning, anymore. He pinned her with his gaze. "How bad was it?"

Tony stared at him. Out of all the people in this room, he was not the one she had expected to ask her that question. It surprised her, jarring something loose in her chest. It was unsettling, almost painful, as if she'd been bleeding for a while and had only just noticed the cut.

She had to swallow before she answered. "I'd never seen anything like it, but that's not saying much." He tilted his head, a shrug without shoulders. She said, "I just--I want... I can't imagine losing a child at the Conclave. We need to tell them something, if only to let them know for certain who was lost. I'm... They think I was sent by the Maker, Commander. It was..." Whatever anger she had felt had leaked out of her as she'd explained. It took her a moment of searching for the right word before she settled on the obvious one. "Really fucking unnerving, sorry."

He exhaled, and had he been less miserable, it might have been a laugh. "I cannot imagine."

That was not the response of an oblivious person. Tony wanted to shake him, to demand that he explain his whole deal. Instead, she simply sighed. "I want to help. Sincerely, that's all I want. Can we all just accept that I fell out of the sky and move on?"

Leliana made a noise that was the polite cousin of a scoff. Josephine looked at her with helpless eyes, then focused on Tony. "If I may, Your Worship--you say that you wish to move on. In your absence, Leliana and I have been attempting to confirm your story, as you know. We have also been attempting to discover how your transport here might be--potentially, in future, after the Breach is closed--how it might be reversed."

Tony blinked. "Oh." That answered a question, at least. She caught Cullen's eye and smiled. "Is that why?" He looked at her in question. "You seemed pretty eager to have this meeting."

He winced. "I wasn't thinking."

"You were thinking too much, maybe," she said. "Whatever. Anyway, Lady Montilyet..." Cullen seemed concerned about resources. There were too many things to do--too many things that only Tony could do, as far as rifts were concerned--to be thinking about that already. The idea of returning to California immediately left a sour taste in her mouth. After a moment's thought, Tony said, "Let's focus on the Breach, okay? Thanks, but I'm good for now. Or, I will be, once I take a bath or two."

Josephine was smiling again, but it still seemed fragile. "That is almost too generous, my Lady Herald. To devote yourself entirely to our cause... It is an unexpected gift."

Tony didn't remind her that there was no guarantee she was even alive, back home. Instead, she said, "Happy early birthday, then, I guess. Was there anything else, or--meeting adjourned?"

They filed out of the room. Tony approached the Commander, walking by his side as they exited the Chantry. Keeping her voice down with respect to those who were praying, she asked, "Was it that you thought I'd want to get home as soon as possible?"

He looked down at her, surprised about something. He stuttered, then said, "Were I in your position, I would want... That is, I thought it would be a show of good faith. That we have your best interests at heart."

She nodded, and touched him on the arm. "Then allow me to apologize for basically calling you a dick, in there."

He huffed another of those small almost-laughs, but his expression was pained. "We are in a Chantry, my Lady."

Tony nodded, then rushed forward to hold the door open for him. He stepped through, bemused. She said, "Sorry for basically calling you a dick, in there."

The Commander's face seemed caught between a frown and a grin. "I--please go take your bath, Herald."

Tony gave him one pat on the arm, then beelined to her cabin to grab fresh clothes. All in all, not a disaster of a council meeting, but she was nevertheless grateful it was over.

Chapter Text

Tony had a few days to reacquaint herself with Haven before setting out for Val Royeaux. She threw herself into her studies, memorizing runes and reading whatever she could find. There were more books in Haven than she'd hoped; Josephine had a full library of reference texts, Varric had a small collection of fiction, and the Chantry of course had scripture readily available in several languages. Every night, she would stay up late in the Chantry, using the embarrassment of candles to read by. Every morning, as soon as she woke, she joined Josephine for tea in her office and allowed herself to be quizzed.

At first, Josephine had been hesitant. Tony couldn't regret what she'd said at the meeting post-Hinterlands, but she couldn't just let things be awkward, either. The work was too important. Tony did her best to reassure the Ambassador that, for now, everything was water under the bridge. Tony could feel resentful and be useful at the same time; she was a talented multitasker.

And so they continued to meet in Josephine's office. "What can you recall about the monarchy of Antiva, my Lady?"

Tony smiled, squinting her eyes in order to better remember. "That it's actually a plutocracy, same as everywhere else. Barring Ferelden, I suppose. Or not?"

"Wealth is always a factor in politics," said Josephine. She was eating a sweet roll in a completely sociopathic way, breaking it up into even pieces and selecting them to eat in order of most to least amount of glaze. "Perhaps we could begin with a list of names. Who currently rules the five nearest kingdoms and empires?"

"Alistair and Queen Anora," she said, lightly singing a simple tune. "Ferelden and her diaspora, Frostback west of Amaranthine, once-lost son of a once-lost king..." She opened her eyes. "Sorry if that's weird. It's easier for me to remember, like this."

Josephine appeared overjoyed. "You wrote a song?"

"A bad one. A mnemonic device," hedged Tony. She took up the tune again. "Empress Celene Valmont the First, or Gaspard, were things reversed. King Fulgeno number two, and in Par Vollen, who knows who? Finally there comes Tevinter, temperate even in midwinter, ruled by..." She squinted. "Ruled by... magisters, but that doesn't rhyme with anything."

"The Imperial Archon," said Josephine, amused, "though I cannot think of a rhyme for that, either."

Tony leaned back in her seat. "Arson? Garden? Eesh..."

"My Lady, I am curious. Have you written any other songs?"

"Kinda," answered Tony. At Josephine's confusion, she explained. "This is how I remember stuff, and I've got a lot to remember. So, maybe I didn't come up with a tune for everything, but I know enough rhymes to improvise one. It's just a game."

"It is a most endearing game," said Josephine, still smiling.

Tony knew she was starting to blush, so attempted to change the subject. "How do you memorize things? You must have an entire library in your head."

Josephine tilted her head just so to acknowledge the compliment. "By rote, I suppose." She flicked through the pages of her heraldry book. "When I was young, I would read through lists of names as though they were novels. I thought that the darkest secrets of Thedas would become clear to me, if only I studied its people closely enough."

Tony laughed. "Ambitious from the jump, huh? I should have guessed."

There was a knock at the door, and a runner peeked their head in. "Forgive my intrusion, only your presence has been requested in--"

"The council room," breathed Josephine, surging to her feet. "How foolish--I'd forgotten. All this talk about memory--"

"And yet," agreed Tony, standing as well. "Thank you. What was your--wait a sec, I know you." She smiled, pleased to see them. "Hello, Lilan."

They flushed and bowed their head. "My Lady Herald."

"Good to see you." The three of them walked the short distance over to the council room. "How's your sister doing?"

Lilan burst into a smile. "The healer said it'd be any day, now. I'm grateful we have a place here, Your Worship--we never could have afforded such care back in Crestwood."

Apparently, "such care" meant "any access to a healer," and Tony felt relieved for Lilan's family, as well. "Keep me posted, okay? If either of you need anything, let me know." Lilan nodded, and Tony followed Josephine into the room at the back of the Chantry.

Leliana, Cassandra, and the Commander were all already in position. "I apologize for keeping you waiting," said Tony. "Josephine, you wanted to discuss our progress before I left for Val Royeaux?"

"I did. The supply lines between the Crossroads and Haven are growing more secure by the day, my Lady," said Josephine, "and the horses Master Dennet has been so generous to supply are arriving in groups of five. By the end of next week, we should have quite the cavalry."

"That's good, at least." Tony considered the Monopoly-game-size pieces of iron still on the map. "What's this one, to the South, here?"

"Ah." Josephine flipped to a new page on her mock-clipboard. "We have not discussed the Avvar, have we? There has been a challenge made to you."

Tony tilted her head, certain she had misheard. "A challenge."

Apparently, someone wanted to prove that Tony wasn't an avatar of a god, or that their god was stronger than hers, or both of those things. And they wanted to do it via the Thedosian national pastime: murder.

"Okay," said Tony. "I mean, I'm... absolutely not going to do that."

Leliana gestured with her own notes. "We would not have brought it to your attention without due cause. This 'Hand of Korth' has kidnapped Inquisition soldiers, and is holding them hostage until you come to claim them personally."

"Those men knew the risk when they accepted their mission to the Fallow Mire," said the Commander, grim as always. Tony tried not to think of him as a little heartless, but it wasn't easy.

Tony bit her lower lip, thinking about what she could do about this bizarre situation. "I've never been 'challenged' before. What can you tell me about the Avvar?"

Everyone had approximately the same perspective. Cullen saw them as competent raiders, calling on his Fereldan childhood to cite several examples of them poaching and being hired as mercenaries. Leliana had slightly more respect for their rituals, but clearly saw them as an obstacle to be overcome instead of a rich culture. Josephine briefly mentioned their history of being pushed out of their ancestral lands, and how they claimed the nearly-uninhabitable Frostbacks as their home.

Tony's heart sank. "They're an indigenous group?"

Josephine nodded. "They choose to live apart from Fereldan culture and laws, but this does not mean they do not have their own. They are not Andrastian, clearly--"

"Fuck." Tony sighed. "Goddamn it."

Uncomfortable silence, until Leliana broke it with, "Is there a problem, Herald?"

"You're right. I can't ignore this," said Tony, lacing her fingers behind her head to stretch her back and shoulders. "If the Inquisition is after influence, I can't dismiss the words of a persecuted religious minority out of hand. I don't like their methods, but..." She let her arms drop. "I don't need to like their methods. I need to solve this. Lady Josephine, are you absolutely positive that their challenge needs to be... I mean, is this a duel?"

The Ambassador almost laughed. "No, my Lady, nothing so dignified." Tony frowned at the clear prejudice, but continued listening. "They will accept no second to fight on your behalf. They would like to see the power bestowed upon you by Andraste, no one else."

"And it doesn't matter that I'm..." Tony gestured to herself. "The heaviest weight I can lift is my ego. That's fine with them?"

Leliana shook her head. "They do not share our rules of honor."

Tony sighed, cheeks blown out. "Oof. Well. I'm open to suggestions."

"My Lady, there truly are more pressing matters." Leliana greeted Tony's look of mild dismay with her own placid mask. "The Avvar will not kill our men. They will not be kept in comfortable lodging, but they will remain unharmed until we are able to claim them."

That was better than nothing. The more Tony thought about it, the better it felt. "Can we send them a message?" Leliana nodded, though clearly not certain. "I would like to, if I may. Not an apology. I just want them to know that they haven't been forgotten. Would the Avvar allow that?"

"I do not know," said the Spymaster. "We can certainly try."

They turned to their next matters in slightly higher spirits. When Tony chanced a look at Cullen, he was almost smiling. Apparently, that hadn't been a dumb thing to suggest. She gave him an almost-smile back, and then focused on the matter Cassandra had brought to the table.

-

The day before leaving for Val Royeaux, Josephine brought Tony to her office and offered a selection of clothing. "Donations," she said. Tony gave them a furtive sniff, trying to smell death on them, but they'd been thoroughly washed before being brought to her. "The last thing Haven needs is an outbreak of lice," explained Josephine.

Tony grimaced. "Yikes."

She settled on the warmest, simplest options: a woven wool shirt, linen underthings, deerskin leggings. A long coat with fur at the collar and, finally, pockets. As an afterthought, she picked up a pair of fingerless gloves.

Josephine held up a pair of felted navy mittens. "May I ask--why those, and not these?"

"I still need to write," she said. "I'd rather do that with warm palms than not. Can you teach me to do my hair? I'm used to, um." She tugged out the worn elastic from her ponytail. "These."

"Oh," said Josephine, intrigued. She accepted it from Tony's outstretched hand and played with it between her fingers. "I can see how this would be convenient."

"And it's on its way out, so..."

Josephine gave her a tutorial, taking down her own style and doing it up again, revealing the many hidden pins and fasteners it required. Tony adopted something simpler for herself and tied everything together with a short silk ribbon. The ribbon was a little twee for her tastes, Chantry red and shiny, but there weren't a whole lot of options.

She gave Josephine a pose. "How do I look?"

Unfortunately, Josephine actually considered Tony, looking her over with the focus of a professional. "You look... practical, my Lady." 

Tony fairly cackled. "Yes, well. Thank you for the braiding lesson, as well as everything else--you have a meeting soon, don't you?" Josephine nodded, and Tony laughed again. "Easy guess."

They packed up the unpicked donations, and Tony carried them back to Threnn, who stored them in one of the tents around her circle. Haven seemed particularly bustling, that day--people were streaming in from the Hinterlands looking to volunteer for the Inquisition, or simply for food and shelter. With the gloves on, Tony could almost blend in, smiling and nodding to people who did not know to salute back.

The lack of awe at her presence turned out to be a double-edged sword. Not all of these new people were pious refugees--some were members of the lower nobility, lords, ladies, and one genuine, honest-to-God knight. The knight, a Sir Destrian, did not hesitate to order the people he saw to help him with his luggage.

"You there," he said, picking Tony out from the crowd. "My horse requires seeing-to. Take him to the stable."

She looked between the knight and the massive beast, which looked like a Clydesdale had made a love connection with a pit bull. "Uh. Will your horse consent to--I mean, it's not going to bite me, is it?"

He made a "tuh" noise, as if Tony were a fool for asking. "If you do not stick your fingers in his mouth, then you will keep them."

That wasn't anywhere near reassuring, but Tony took the reins anyway, gently urging the horse back out the gates. Its tack and saddle gleamed, and so did the horse itself, clearly accustomed to better lodging than what Haven had to offer. When it saw the paddock, it snorted, as if it thought Tony were joking.

"Sorry, big guy," she said. "We're rustic, out here."

Lilan was at the stable, elbows leaning against the fence. Tony called out to them, and was surprised to see the misery on their face.

"Horse delivery." She handed Lilan the reins, stepping back so they could open the gate to the paddock. "What's wrong?"

Lilan stayed in the paddock with the horse, removing its tack and letting it nose into the water trough. "Nothing," they said. Tony gave them a look, and they immediately folded. "I'm so sorry, Your Worship, I know I have no right to complain--"

"Don't be stupid," she said. "Complaining is great. I recommend it to everyone."

"It's my assignment." They brought a brush to the horse's flank, rubbing circles and releasing dust into the air. "I'm meant to go with you--I mean, I've been selected as a member of your travelling party to Orlais."

"Is that not a good thing?" To her, it sounded like a promotion. Of course, then she remembered Lilan's sister. "What about the baby?"

They nodded, releasing a sigh into the dust. "I know it's foolish. I've always wanted to see Val Royeaux, and Lizzie--well, I haven't told her yet, but she'd want me to--"

"Stay here," said Tony, cutting them off. "Lilan, you're her family. Just tell the Commander..." Even as she began to suggest it, she could tell it was a pointless thing to say. "Just" telling the Commander anything required a certain amount of stubbornness, and Lilan was barely comfortable explaining things to Tony. After she'd thought it through, it was easy to come to a decision. "I'll be back later," she said, stepping away from the fence. "Probably with some other noble asshole's noble steed. Will you still be here?"

Lilan nodded. "'Til the evening, Your Worship."

She gave them a smile and a wave, then turned to walk over to the drilling recruits. There were more now than there had been, and the heather green that Tony'd thought of as part of the uniform was no longer present on every soldier. Yet another supply issue--people were being forced to bring their own arms and armor, or to buy them from Segritt, that one shady merchant. Tony made a mental note to discuss matters with Threnn and Josephine.

As always, the Commander was standing away from his men, barking instructions and receiving an endless stream of reports from runners. If she were him, she would have asked for a desk or a chair or something. He looked impossibly gorgeous and vaguely awkward, standing in the wind. She waited in line behind two runners, watching the drills with detached interest. Had they improved, since she'd been out in the Hinterlands? It was impossible for her to tell.

"What?" Snapped Cullen. Tony looked up at him, surprised, and watched his expression shift from annoyance to shock. "I--forgive me, my Lady, I did not recognize--"

"Excuse me, 'what'?" She frowned at him, hands on her hips. "That's how you greet the runners?"

He floundered for words, and finally sighed. "I apologize. Did you need something?"

"Rude," she muttered. Then, she announced, "I have a slightly unreasonable request to make."

The Commander was predictably confused by her phrasing, which at least got him to stop stuttering. "Then--all right. What is it?"

"The soldiers you've tapped to accompany me to Val Royeaux--can I see a list, or something?"

"Ah." He glanced over at one of the tents, then back at her. "Yes, it would be... I believe the roster is in my..."

Tony squinted at him. The concept of work-life balance had clearly not made it to this part of the universe. "Okay. My request is that you remove Lilan Stoke from the party."

The Commander clutched the pommel of his sword. "I see. For what reason?"

There was a shift in the air, some tension that Tony couldn't read. Annoyed at her shortcoming, she said, "Their sister is due to give birth really soon, and they don't want to miss it. They'd have come to you directly, but you're..." She gestured to him. "You. Their boss. So, hello. Don't send Lilan away for the next few weeks."

"Oh." Cullen's shoulders relaxed, but only slightly. "Of course. That is hardly unreasonable--I will make the necessary adjustments."

"Good." Tony continued standing before him. He'd said yes, so she had every reason to retreat again, but she couldn't bring herself to just yet. "You didn't know?"

He turned to face her more fully, the winter light making his fur ruff look black and heavy. "I did not." Tony sucked on the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something rash. He noticed, and sighed again. "I knew only of Lilan's interest in visiting Orlais."

Tony shifted her weight, almost literally biting her tongue. At Cullen's continued stare, she blurted, "Maybe if you said more than 'what' to the runners, you would've known better."

"I will keep that in mind," he said, visibly distancing himself from their conversation. "Will that be all, my Lady?"

"Absolutely," she said. She turned and walked away, focusing on not slipping in the snow instead of how irritating the Commander could be. Likely, he was thinking the same thing about her, which only made her mood worse. Someday, she was going to figure out how to talk to that guy.

Luckily, she found a hundred different distractions in Haven. People needed food to eat and places to sleep, and Tony knew at least enough to help brand-new arrivals. A boy of fifteen, all earnestness and elbows, asked where he might volunteer to be a soldier for the Inquisition. Tony bit back a grimace and pointed him back out the gates. "The Commander is running drills, at the moment," she said. "He would know how to sign up."

The boy nodded and left, following her directions. Tony had hope that Cullen wasn't about to recruit a child, but she had little faith. It was only later, when she saw the boy sitting on a log and looking miserable, that she released the breath she'd been holding. She got two bowls of thin soup from one of the cooks and moved to sit next to the boy, offering him one. "Hungry?"

He barely looked at her. "No."

"More for me," said Tony, but she put one of the bowls next to him on the bench just in case. "Didn't go well with the Commander, I'm guessing."

"I thought the Inquisition needed people," he said, voice boyish and whiney. He must have heard it, as well, because he cleared his throat and his next words came out deeply masculine. "I'm not a child. I can fight." She hummed, drinking her soup and listening. "I had to fight my way here! There were mages on the road. Blood mages."

If this kid had a weapon on him, it was well hidden. "Did you tell him that?"

"I tried to," said the boy, voice high again. "But he wouldn't listen."

"That's not a huge shock." The boy looked at her with sudden interest. She shrugged. "He's got his own ideas about things. Can't say I understand them, but that's Commander Cullen for you."

The boy looked down at his knees, the weight of the world on his shoulders. "I came here for a job," he said. "What'm I supposed to do now?"

"Hmm." Tony looked over the bustle of people, considering what to suggest. "There are still plenty of jobs, but only a few of them would be impressive to someone like the Commander." Instantly, she had the boy's full attention. Tony did her best not to smile. Egos were fragile things. "Now, if it were me, I'd go ask the cook if they need anybody. Butchering animals, kneading dough--that'll get you rippling with muscles in no time. More muscles," she amended. 

The boy's nose wrinkled. "I hate cooking."

"Blacksmith, then." She gestured with her bowl to roughly where Master Harritt had set up shop. "That would teach you about armor and swords, should you need to brush up on that. Plus, you can see the soldiers drill from the forge."

That gave him pause. She let him consider it, finishing her soup and scanning the crowd. That Knight was probably in the Chantry, by now, demanding to be given the grand tour or something equally stupid. It was much better out in the cold and snowy damp of Haven's grounds.

"My name's Martin," said the boy,finally picking up his soup. "What's yours?"

"Antonia," she said. Her nickname was too strange to slip unnoticed into casual conversation. "Do you need help finding a place to sleep?"

He did. It turned out he'd arrived at Haven alone, which made Tony's heart ache a little. So many people were getting cut down every day, and she still didn't understand how things had gotten this bad. Mother Giselle had said that the Chantry could have stopped this, but she couldn't see how. Not unless she was still missing some pretty important pieces.

Once Martin had a cot in the Chantry, Tony said, "The blacksmith's name is Harritt. Kind of grumpy, big mustache."

He nodded once, decisive. "Thank you, Lady Antonia."

Tony fought the urge to snort. "Just 'Antonia' is fine, please. See you around, Martin."

She left the Chantry and took her own advice, deciding to hunt down the cooks and see if they needed any help. Unluckily, almost all of the kitchen staff recognized her, and so she was reverently yet firmly blocked from helping them out. She ended up with her hands on her hips, frowning at the door that had been lovingly closed in her face.

There were books to read, of course. The light outside was still good, but the thought of those complex Trade runes made her head throb in anticipation. Of all the things she wished she'd brought with her to Thedas, top of the list--even above coffee--were her reading glasses.

She wandered into the crowds of Haven again, searching for something to do. Tony had zero desire to look inward and sort through all the things she'd flagged for "later," knowing that it would suck. So, she was spurred to action. Errands, even. Anything to occupy her hands, and with any luck, her mind.

Her feet lead her out of the gates, again, where the soldiers were still drilling. She did not envy them at all--after hours of lifting swords and swinging them, their shoulders must be murder. There must be a booming local business in magical pain relievers.

There was a huge pile of wood up against Haven's outer wall, as well as a stump and an axe. Right. Splitting wood. Useful. How hard could it be? First order of business, get the axe out of the stump. She gripped it by the handle, braced her feet against the ground, and tugged.

Nothing.

She heard the clink of someone armored approaching, and entered a small panic. She could do this--she needed to do this, otherwise she'd have to think. She pushed at the axe, willing it to budge, and then pulled it again. Did she have to kick it loose? That seemed disrespectful to the axe.

A man Tony didn't recognize leaned against the tall stack of wood. "Push a bit harder at first, maybe."

Tony sighed, but tried the pushing again, both hands firm on the handle. Finally, it moved, and when she tugged it free, she almost fell on her ass in the snow. "Nice. Thanks."

"Not at all," he said. He had an almost-Scottish accent, there and gone again. "Now that you've got it, what're you planning to do with it?"

She looked over at him, slightly confused. He had tattoos on his face, but nothing like a teardrop or writing. They were bold lines on his chin, and one along the side of his nose. Tony made a note to ask Josephine about what that could mean, later. "Chop wood," she said.

He made a show of getting comfortable against the wood pile. "Eager to see that."

Tony rolled her eyes, but couldn't fight her smile. "I'll bet. Move over."

She selected a few logs with level ends, the better to rest them on the stump. Now that she was closer to the man, she noticed the Templar insignia on his breastplate. Or, at least, she thought it was the Templar insignia--it was similar to the Seeker one, as well as the straight-up Chantry one. The branding in Thedas was not as clear as it could have been.

Tony set a log on the stump, only for him to say, "A few practice swings without the log, maybe." She gave him a look, and he shrugged. "No sense in spoiling the wood."

She could comfortably assume that he knew more about this than she did, and so she took the log back off the stump, spread her feet, and firmed up her grip on the axe handle.

"You left-handed?"

Tony frowned. "No?" He didn't elaborate, so Tony took a moment to puzzle out what he was implying. When she switched up her grip on the handle, he nodded at her. All he needed was a teacup to look over imperiously while she did this. "You know, this would go a lot faster if you'd just tell me what to do."

He smiled. "Ah, but where's the fun in that?"

The first practice swing hit the stump at the edge, and Tony learned that aiming a downswing was not something that came naturally to her. The second practice swing had the axe nearly hit her on the back of the head. "Any more tips, Master Woodcutter?"

"You're doing great," he said. "Feet're a tad wide."

Tony was not doing great, and it was so obvious she wasn't that she didn't feel the need to correct him. Finally, she delivered a swing that made contact with roughly the center of the stump. She then had to pull the axe back out again, which wasn't as difficult as it had been the first time. Either that was due to her using the "push first" method, or she just wasn't strong enough to really get the axe in there.

Once she put a log on the stump again, the man spoke up. "Don't aim for the center." Tony looked up, eyebrows raised. He said, "It's easier to come in on the side. Don't bother with that knot, either. You'd be out here all day."

Tony studied the stump, trying to pick a good place to split it. Whether or not she'd hit her target was yet to be seen. "Can I ask you something unrelated?"

The man rolled his eyes. "There it is." He began to recite something, voice deadened. "The Commander of the Inquisition is a very busy man. While your interest is flattering, he's asked me not to tell anyone which tent is his. If you have a note, leave it with me, and I'll get it to him. If you have a token--"

"Hold on," said Tony, her smile widening. "What is this?"

He looked surprised to be interrupted. "What? D'you expect me to believe you're out here because you love chopping wood?"

"I don't love chopping wood, I'm learning to chop wood, and does the Commander have a chastity guard I don't know about, or is this a hobby of yours?" Log forgotten, Tony put the axe down by the stump.

He pushed off from where he'd been leaning. "No--don't leave it in the snow, it'll rust. Give it here."

Tony handed over the axe. The man held it with his hands on either end of the handle, keeping it parallel to his stance. "You didn't answer my question," she said.

The man examined the log and waved for Tony to step back, which she did. He said, "Wouldn't call it a hobby. More of an annoyance, really."

"Sounds like it."

"Watch." He brought his feet shoulder-width apart, kept his eyes on the log, and brought up the axe. The hand that had been near the axe head slid down the handle as he did, and by the time he swung it down, his hands were together, the head of the axe hitting the log with an expert thump. It split neatly down the middle.

Tony applauded, which made the man give a small bow as he grinned. She held out her hands for the axe again. "Can I?"

"Go on, then." Tony moved a new log into position. He said, "What was your question, if not that?"

She got into position, hands far apart on the handle. "Something about Templars. Do people really come out here and bother him that often? How does he get anything done?"

"I've wondered that myself," he said, looking over her stance. "It's worse here than it was in Kirkwall, I'll say that. Too many ladies."

Tony looked over the log for a target. "Ladies as in women?"

"Ladies as in ladies. Fancy types what see a man in uniform and think, 'ah, surely he's not busy, I'll go over and try to hook him.'"

"Ha." Externally, she was taking another practice swing with the axe. Internally, she was going over her interactions with Cullen in her mind, focused entirely on her own behavior. Had she acted like that? She liked to look at him, sure, but had she actively made him uncomfortable? Had her attention made it difficult for him to do his job? 

She brought the axe down, clipping the log in the side and shaving off a strip of bark. "Shit."

"At least you hit the thing," he said. "Are you really out here to work?"

She blew her hair out of her face. "Of course not," she said, favoring him with a smile. "I'm here to seduce a man in uniform. Is it working?"

He laughed. "Could be, could be."

"Ser Rylen!" Cullen's voice cut over the snow. Tony looked up and saw the soldiers dispersing, returning their practice swords to the racks and heading toward the gate. Tony nodded to the ones she recognized, paying more attention to their age range than she would have before meeting Martin. Some looked to be teenagers, but most were around twenty, she'd guess. That was a small relief, but still, they were so young.

He approached Tony and Ser Rylen. Tony focused on getting the log in the center, wanting to get this right. The two men conferred about some report or another, and then Ser Rylen was dismissed. Before he left, he said, "Keep your back straight."

"Will do," said Tony. "Have a good one, Ser."

Again, Tony was left alone with the Commander. With anyone else, she'd make a joke--something easy, like "we have got to stop meeting like this." As it was, she looked down at the log, kept her back straight, and swung. Finally, the log split roughly in half. "Hell yeah," said Tony.

"Herald," said the Commander. "What... You're... chopping firewood?"

"I'm baking a cake, actually," she corrected, putting the next log on the stump. "Can't you tell?"

She didn't need to look up at him to know that he was frowning. "What were you and Ser Rylen speaking about?"

Tony smiled down at the log. This one had a knot in it as well. "You."

He made a strange noise, like a sputter through his teeth. "Why?"

"Well," said Tony, examining the head of the axe. It was easier to speak with him this way, she discovered. Not having to look him in the eye. "He mentioned your pest problem." Tony dared a glance at him then, mostly to waggle her eyebrows. She noted that he had no Templar insignia on his breastplate, and wondered if that was a calculated decision. "Sorry to hear about that."

"My--" She saw him realize what she meant, and how his frown melted into a wince. No smugness, no braggadocio--genuine discomfort. "Maker. Does no one have anything better to do than gossip?"

She focused on his armor, the way the fur ruffled in the wind, and pretended he had no face at all. After a moment, she looked away again. "I don't," she answered, rolling her shoulders and standing up straight. "No one will let me do anything." She swung down, and got the axe stuck halfway through the log. Of course. "Which, given the evidence, makes sense." She tapped the log against the stump. What was she supposed to do now?

"Knight-Captain Rylen is my second in command. He should know better than--I--you can just swing it again, it should get through."

"Maybe if you delegated more, he wouldn't have the time to put your business in the street." She tapped the log harder. She really didn't want to swing the whole thing over her head. That seemed like asking for trouble.

Cullen stepped forward. Tony immediately stepped away, leaving the axe wedged into the log. He paused, but only for a moment before taking up the embedded axe and giving it a half-swing against the stump. The log split neatly in two.

Tony tapped her chin, considering the axe in the Commander's hands. "How did I mess that up?"

He looked at the axe head. "It's sharp enough. Perhaps you didn't keep your hands at the end of the handle."

"Perhaps." She held out her hands for the axe, but he did not give it to her. Her stomach swooped. What was he doing?

She looked from his chestplate to his face and saw his serious expression. It threw Tony for a loop, as she'd thought he'd only be a little annoyed with her. Was she in actual trouble? If he really couldn't take a joke, she had no idea what to do or say.

"Just now," he said, "you mentioned no one would let you do anything."

Somehow, the Commander had cornered Tony into a conversation as serious as his face. She gave him a weak smile. "Are you threatening me?"

His eyebrows skyrocketed. "What?" He looked at the axe in his hands, then back up, offering it to her with arms fully extended. "No! Here, please."

She took it from him, but didn't return to chopping. She rested the head of the axe against her boot, keeping it off of the damp ground. "It's because I'm supposed to be the Herald, I guess." She waved to him with her gloved left hand. "Not much helps."

"I see." He considered her boots, then his boots, then the horizon to his left. This revealed his profile, unfortunately. Strong nose, strong cheekbones. Bags under his eyes that wouldn't fit in the overhead compartment. Returning his focus to her, he said, "Is, ah--there must be something you wish to do."

Tony blinked. She hadn't been approaching it from that angle at all. It was more that she wanted to do something useful, to feel helpful in a way that wasn't tied to the magical responsibility that had been forced upon her. Beyond that, her ideas were entirely vague.

"I have no idea," she said, deciding that honesty was stupid enough to pass as acceptable banter. "I mean, beyond a promising career as an amateur woodcutter, I don't really... What are my options?"

Cullen looked similarly at sea. "I'm sure I don't know. You... you were a teacher, you said?"

"Yeah, among other things." How had they gotten onto this topic? "It's fine to feel kind of useless, I guess. All I do is plug up rifts, and I can't even do that to the big one."

He squinted at her. It looked like he was trying to read her thoughts, but her thoughts were in very small type. "My Lady, are you--forgive me if this is too--" He made a vague gesture with a hand before returning it to his sword. "No one expects you to seal the Breach alone."

She squinted back. "Well, no. Not anymore, since I failed at it the first time."

"That..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I believe I understand." She nodded to him, asking for him to continue. Despite herself, she was interested in what he had to say. He said, "Bringing you to the Breach in order to seal it was a risk, and it did not end well. It cost us your health. There was no guarantee that you would survive at all, as you've said before, and had things been less dire, we would not have attempted it. We--Cassandra, Josephine, Leliana, and I--have no desire to trade your life for closing the Breach. However, we have agreed to make contact with the Chantry in Val Royeaux, where you will..." She watched him try to hide his distaste. "Speak... with the Orlesians."

Tony grinned. "Not a fan?"

"Not as such." He shook his head. "All this to say, we don't need you to prove your worth to us. You've already said you wish to help. That's all that we could ask."

She looked up at him, thinking less about his words and more about his intention behind them. He wasn't an artful speaker, but there was something about his voice that was easy to listen to--that weird bashfulness countered by the ferocity of his armor. I wonder if his ruff is soft. She banished the intrusive thought, and said, "It's not all you could ask, it's all you are currently asking. I fully expect that to change."

He smiled, and it was almost identical to his wince. "Of course."

Tony let some of her bitterness show. "I'll trust you when you trust me. How's that sound?"

A shadow crossed over the Commander's face. There was a moment of silence, but before it could extend to true awkwardness, he spoke again. "That boy... the one you sent to me this morning." His brow furrowed. "We do not have the ability to train someone of his age. Were Haven a Circle, we would have different equipment, more teachers, and we could have accepted him as a recruit."

Tony stilled. Her smile was still on her face, but all it did was strain her cheeks. There was no warmth to it. "His name is Martin. Would you seriously have accepted him? If things were different?"

"Of course." The Commander's mouth twisted in that small smile again. "Many start their training at a far younger age. I was thirteen when I joined the Templars, and I was considered rather ancient in comparison to my peers."

She took a deep breath. She turned to the last log she'd pulled from the pile and put it on the stump. The Commander stepped back from her, which was good, because Tony was getting ready to swing. "And the youngest of your Inquisition soldiers," she said, still with that soulless smile on her face. "May I ask how old they are?"

"Seventeen," he said, voice tight. "A recent recruit from the Templars. Herald, are you--?"

Tony lifted the axe, hands apart until it was over her head. Acting as a fulcrum, she swung the axe down in a massive arc, the velocity of the blade cutting deep into the log and splitting it neatly in twain. The two halves skittered into the snow, and the axe bit into the stump, sticking in at an angle.

She let the handle go, and stood back from the stump. Her arms burned, and her fingers felt chapped from the cold and the hard grip of the axe. After another breath, she looked at the Cullen, and saw that his expression had been wiped from his face.

"Sorry," she said, smile manic. "I know it's not you. It's not your fault." 

"I've upset you." His voice was deep and quiet.

Her hands buzzed, her left from the mark, her right from her tension. Feeling her composure shudder, she brought her right hand to her hair, pushing it back from her face with impatient rakes of her fingers. So much for the integrity of her new hairstyle. "It's not you," she repeated. "They're just so fucking young. I've taught teenagers before, and I--it's hard, I guess, for me to imagine them..." She shrugged, spreading her arms wide. "They shouldn't have to do this. They should be safe from this bullshit, but they have to be soldiers instead. It feels criminal, to me."

The Commander remained silent.

"If you'd taken Martin on, I would know what to think of you," she said, anger at a rolling simmer in her gut. "But you didn't, so now I don't."

"Then it was a test," he said, so softly that, were they not alone in a snowy field, it would have been difficult to make out the words.

Her horrible smile widened. "Yeah." She moved back to the stump, picking up the halved logs and inexpert slivers of wood. "Anyway. If you're pissed at Ser Rylen, he didn't know who I was, just now. You could give him a scare, if you wanted. Get some of your own back. Did you want to tell Lilan the good news, or shall I?"

"I said that I would handle it, with Lilan," said the Commander. "Herald, I..."

What was she feeling? Tony looked inward and recoiled from herself. She couldn't think about any of it. Not yet. "It's fine. Go take a nap, or something. You clearly need one."

He silently watched her pick up the wood and return it to the pile. She did not look back to give him a proper goodbye. There would be plenty of time for pleasantries after she returned from Val Royeaux, for all that she felt like a monster for leaving things as they were.

-

Her rage did not crest until two days later.

The journey through Orlais was a study in contrasts. Where the Hinterlands had been untamed, growing undisturbed for so long that many of the trees were older than the country in which they stood, the Orlesian forests were grown almost mechanically. Young trees, planted in order to be felled and turned into luxurious housing or furniture. Tony knew that it was better to grow such sustainable forests instead of simply laying waste and never planting a sapling, but the regularity of the trees by the road made her feel as though she were in a cartoon, the background looping every few minutes.

They were on horseback for most of the trip, which shaved off days of travel. Tony was happy about that, since the regimented forests eventually fell away to towns made of white stone and masked people. For all that Orlais was meant to be in the midst of the same Templar-mage conflict as Ferelden, that stress wasn't reflected anywhere. Perhaps it would be on the faces of the citizens, but she couldn't see any of those.

Val Royeaux itself was small for a city, its walls a perfect circle surrounded by a moat of such unlikely blue that Tony assumed the sides must be painted. The idea that someone would prepare for a siege, yet take the time to make the protections look good, gave Tony a pretty clear idea of Orlesian sensibilities.

When the capital was clearly visible in the distance, they dismounted and left their horses with a stable that owed Josephine a favor. From there, they walked, Tony's boots clicking on the pristine white pavement. There was a lot of white around, really. Tony did not care for it.

Carts and stalls were set up along the roadside, manned by people hoping to strike a deal without entering the city proper. "Tourism must bring in a lot of money," she said.

Cassandra nodded. "It is the cultural center of the South. Or so it is said," she added.

"Do you disagree?"

"I do not know," said Cassandra. "Only, the Inquisition is not Orlesian, and the Fereldan members of our organization definitely would."

"Hey," said Varric. "Ferelden's great, if you like trees and dogshit. I missed the city."

"The finest dresses," crowed a merchant. "The finest clothes--you there! Perhaps your boy could use a new doublet?"

For a moment, Tony didn't recognize that the merchant had been calling her out specifically. She paused. "My 'boy?'"

The merchant smiled behind his half-mask, clearly thinking he'd managed to hook her in. "The ladies of Val Royeaux do not keep their servants in such plain clothing," he said. He gestured, fingers fluttering, at Solas.

Tony did not understand. She wasn't great with judging ages based on appearance, but Solas was definitely not a--

Anger could take many forms, in Tony. Sometimes it was a simmer in her blood, or the beating of wings against her ribcage. Very rarely, it would close around her mind and eyes like a camera aperture, fuzzing out everything that wasn't the subject of her fury. Half her life ago, that dark snap of rage would happen and Tony would find her fist already flying. She'd thought that kind of anger was long behind her.

Click, went the anger. Tony felt a hand on her upper arm--it was Solas, holding her back. Apparently, she'd stepped toward the merchant without realizing. She looked up at Solas, and then back at the idiot dressmonger with fire in her gut. "What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"Antonia," said Solas, voice low and calm. "There is no need."

"A thousand apologies," said the merchant, sweeping a low bow. The feather in his hat brushed the dirt road. "I had assumed--"

"Fuck you," she spat. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She knew she had blinders on, she could practically feel them, but she couldn't seem to take them off. All she could see was the merchant, still smiling behind his horrible mask.

Cassandra had Tony's other arm, now, and began hauling her away. She squirmed in their shared grip, boots barely brushing the road. She opened her mouth to call back at the merchant, but Varric, taking up the rear of their party, shook his head.

"No point," he said.

Tony's heart was still racing when they came to a curve in the road. Cassandra let her go, then Solas, and Tony did her best not to march back to that man and push his cart over. Cassandra stepped away and began to pace, and Varric had a chagrined look on his face. Solas, as ever, had a neutral expression.

Solas spoke first. "While I appreciate the feelings behind your outrage, you must not let them spur you to anger."

She glared at him. Then, realizing he was the last person she should be glaring at right then, she turned her eyes to the trees on the side of the road. "Was that," she said, voice trembling, hands shaking, "Did he say that because--was it against elves, or against mages?"

Solas tilted his head. "Which possibility inspired your response?"

"Either," she said. "Both. People--he can't just say shit like that." There were so many ways she could calm herself down. There were so many breathing exercises to use, and yet she could not think of any.

Cassandra and Varric exchanged a look. Tony knew what she looked like, and wished she could put her hands over their eyes until she composed herself again. Varric said, "He can, actually. It's a pretty popular sentiment, especially in human capitals." Where we're going, he didn't have to say.

Tony opened her mouth, then closed it. Don't yell at Varric. He's done nothing wrong. Instead, she turned to Solas. "Do people--has anyone--back in Haven, has anyone--?"

He gave her a smile. It stole her voice for a handful of seconds. He looked sad. Distant, though he was only those few feet away. He didn't say anything. Truthfully, it had been a stupid question, and he'd never had any patience for answering those.

Tony clenched her hands into fists. "Not anymore," she promised him. "The second we get back, I'll--" Cassandra made an irritated noise. Tony scowled at her. "What?"

She had the good grace to look uncomfortable, at least. "We do not have the luxury of handpicking our allies. That is, in part, why we are here."

Tony looked up at her. It was difficult to swallow the embers of her emotions. Cassandra must have seen some of that struggle in Tony's expression, because she added, "I do not agree with that man, but--"

"But?" Tony stepped into Cassandra's space, jabbing a finger into the Seeker's chestplate. "You're going to defend that dumb motherfucker?"

Cassandra held up her hands, palms facing Tony in a gesture of peace. Possibly, she didn't want to risk actually moving against Tony, as she was far stronger and might hurt Tony on accident. "Not defend," she said, voice tinged with pleading, "only explain."

Tony scoffed, crossing her arms to keep from further angry pointing. Her right index finger already hurt from Cassandra's platemail. "You don't have to," she bit out. She hated how strained her voice sounded. "I can guess. Elves are different, they have different traditions--probably different magical traditions, right? So clearly they're evil."

Cassandra grimaced. "Not all humans believe elves to be inferior."

Tony reared her head back, disgusted. "I--just--" She laughed, too angry to do anything else. "Wow. Congratulations, Cassandra. Only most humans. Let's throw a parade."

The Seeker shuttered her expression. "You need to calm down."

"Orlais is not the worst Thedas has to offer, in terms of this prejudice," said Solas. His hands were clasped behind his back, but his shoulders appeared relaxed. "In the Tevinter Imperium, elves are kept as slaves."

She gave another laugh, this one little more than a scoff. "Of course," she muttered. She brought a hand to her eyes. "Of course there are slaves, here."

"Not here," said Cassandra, horrified.

Tony let her hand drop and glared at Cassandra, and lost control over her volume. "Yes," she shouted. "Here. Here, in Thedas. I thought--" She cut herself off, shame making her near tears. She swallowed, then let out an unsteady breath.

Solas looked at her, silently appraising. Cassandra seemed to be at a loss for words. It was Varric who picked up the sentence where Tony had left off. "What did you think, Tony?" He sounded almost sad. "That we were all one big happy family?"

She sniffed and crossed her arms, hiding her unsteady hands against her ribs. "Other than the demons," she said. "And the Templars, and the mages, and the Chantry and--how do you people even find the time to hate elves, on top of everything else? No wonder the fucking world is ending." She remembered the elven woman who had brought her that box of elfroot, once she'd woken up after the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Had that woman been a maid, a runner, or a servant? Had that woman been a slave, and Tony had been too oblivious to notice?

Tony breathed. Inhale, hold, exhale. She blinked, trying to adjust to being in the present. Where was she? On the road to Val Royeaux. It was sunny. There was a slight breeze. Everyone was looking at her. "Where I am from," she said, "there's lots of hate like that. Haven seemed different, at least from the things I'm used to seeing. I'm--God." She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. That blindsided me."

Her travelling party all gave various versions of a shrug. Varric said, "People are people, no matter where you go, and people can believe all sorts of dumb shit."

Tony sucked in another breath, counted to six, and then released it. Thankfully, she hadn't actually cried. "Okay. Okay, I'm good. Sorry."

"There is no need to apologize," said Cassandra. Still, she nodded her acknowledgement of it.

They resumed their walk to the capital. Tony found herself walking beside Solas. Voice just above a whisper, she said, "If we come back this way, and he's still there, can we light his cart on fire?"

Solas' smile was small, but it was there. "'We' will not."

"Just a little on fire." She held up her fingers in a pinch. "Or his hat, maybe."

He didn't say anything, but he did seem amused. Tony tried to smile, but it came out forced, so she stopped attempting one. She hadn't lost control like that since she was fifteen, and she knew that the longer she kept things bottled up, the worse the inevitable explosion would be. Hopefully, she would find some manner of peace in Val Royeaux.

Chapter Text

To Lady Josephine Montilyet,

Once of Antiva, Now of the Inquisition,

Ambassador,

Diplomat,

Fashionista,

Polite Refuser of a Request for Casual Address by One Tony Manynames,

And Also Hello to Commander Cullen and Sister Leliana,

Greetings from Val Royeaux.

The Lord Seeker Lucius hit Chantry Mother Hevara in the middle of the square so hard she fell to the ground. He hit her in the face while she was talking about the Templars protecting them from us, the Inquisition. Is this part of the Grand Game? Berating and abusing old women? How many points does he get?

I do not understand how we have managed to make so many people so angry so quickly. Everyone here is rich and yet they're acting like starving animals.

On my suggestion, some of Leliana's agents left with the Templars. Not all of them looked thrilled to follow Lord Seeker Mucus. If we can poach them, we should.

I know how this reads. I know I should not write this letter now. I should wait to be less angry, but the runner is about to leave and I had to send something along. We have some more agents on the way--a merchant by the name of Belle, and an archer named Sera. Sera either is a Red Jenny, or has contacts in the Red Jennies. If you talk to her, you'll understand why I'm fuzzy on the details. First Enchanter Fiona invited us to Redcliffe; details to follow.

I'm attending a salon tonight with Lady Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard. If I'm murdered, start your investigations there.

My very best wishes to all of you,

Tony

-

Lady Antonia,

Thank you for your report.

Lady Vivienne arrived the other day. She spends her time in the Chantry, complaining awaiting your return.

Sera is also here.

I must tell you that Josephine was not best pleased by your letter. She loves that city, Maker knows why. Lady Vivienne's arrival did much to temper her irritation, however. There is no need for you to apologize for speaking your mind.

Leliana has no news regarding your mark. If I may

Thank you, Herald. Return safely.

-Commander Cullen Rutherford

-

Somehow, during the journey back to Haven, there came a time where Tony didn't have anything immediately pressing to do. She had a meeting scheduled with the Inquisition advisors upon her return to go over the reports from the Hinterlands, including the ones about a supposed Grey Warden who lived out there. She already had her questions drafted, though, and didn't know how else to prepare. Solas was sleeping, Varric was writing, and everyone else in the camp was doing important Inquisition stuff. She couldn't even go out foraging for herbs; there was already a team doing that, and she would just slow them down.

And so Tony was left by the campfire with time on her hands. It felt like having the bends, only instead of nausea there was that ever-present dread in her stomach, the fear of what true rest would bring. She scanned her surroundings, desperate for something, anything to do.

Leaning against a crate of furs, there was an instrument. It was a lute, probably, or something similar--round-backed and wooden, with a neck that canted back and seven tan strings clipped with a capo near the top. Tony wandered over to it, picked it up and plucked at it. Surprisingly, the tuning was similar to a guitar, barring the extra string. She hadn't seen anyone come by to claim it--hadn't even seen anyone use one, ever, though she heard music from the tavern from time to time.

It was fairly simple to unwind the seventh string. The difficult part was compensating for the wider neck, though she surprised herself with the strength of her marked hand. Strumming the strings like this, she could almost ignore the glitter of green on the varnished wood.

Relax, Varric had said, a month ago by now. Perhaps it was better late than never.

Tony's father had liked folk songs, and though Tony'd hated them as a kid, she'd come around to them later on. Easy to play, easy to sing. Like American country--three chords and the truth, wasn't that the saying? She'd kept up her playing through college and her first few gigs as a Spanish language teacher. Younger kids tended to like learning to music, since it was easier to remember lists of vocabulary when they came with a jaunty melody.

Eat All Day, Get Big Easy. Another thing her dad had taught her--learn to tune by ear. No phone app or little black box necessary. As was inevitable, thinking about her father reminded her about her mother. She wondered if she cared that Tony was dead.

No folk music, she decided then. Not yet. She wasn't about to cry in the middle of camp.

"Ain't no sunshine when she's gone," she whispered.

She plucked at the strings, slowly learning where the frets should be and where they were instead. Things sounded sharp, then flat. She hummed as she played, slowly warming up to the feeling of the instrument in her hands. She played through what little she knew of Bill Withers' discography, which didn't take long. Soon, she was improvising--"just noodling." The sound was light and, yes, relaxing. Tony let her eyes slide closed.

There was still so much to learn. Before arriving in Thedas, Tony had naively assumed that most wars just had the two sides, but that could not be further from the truth. There were good and bad people everywhere, in equal ratios, regardless of their appearance or place of birth. How could she be expected to participate in those fucking meetings at the back of the Chantry when she could still be so ignorant about so many things?

A twig snapped. Tony opened her eyes, and jumped about a foot when she saw someone had approached.

"Jesus Christ," she gasped. "Seeker. You scared me."

"I apologize." She did not look apologetic. "I did not wish to interrupt. Where did you learn to play?"

Nowhere, she wanted to say, but it was a friendly question. Cassandra couldn't know it was also a personal one. "My dad taught me, when I was little. The rest was just... watching others, and practicing." She cleared her throat, and thought about putting the instrument down. She compromised by holding it, but not playing. "Did you need help with something?"

"No." Cassandra sat beside Tony, actually perching on the log that Tony was leaning against. "I wished to speak with you." Tony waited, and Cassandra continued. "In Val Royeaux, you seemed... annoyed."

Tony snorted, and began playing again. It felt nice to have something productive to do with her hands that wasn't weird, painful magic. "How could you tell?"

"I, too, am troubled by what we saw. But you." She put her hands on either side of her, bracing against her seat. She couldn't lean forward onto her knees while wearing a chestplate. "The second we entered the city, you were glaring at everything. What was so offensive to you?"

She could still see the summer bazaar when she closed her eyes. The intricate pattern of the tile roads, the royal blue of the walls, the columns and archways all tipped with gold. After spending so long in the mud and the snow of Ferelden, the city stood out as the jewel everyone had said it would be.

"There's a war on," she said, playing a sour note. "There are people dying, every day. Excuse me for not having the patience to admire the quality of their masonry."

Cassandra frowned. "Because there is war, there should no longer be beautiful things?"

"So much white stone," continued Tony. "Who keeps it that clean, do you think? I didn't see anybody holding a broom."

"If you continue speaking only in metaphor, I will leave."

Tony put her palm on the strings, silencing them. She glared up at the Seeker, and a headache threatened to form between her eyebrows. "The Divine is dead, the Chantry is leaderless, the Templars are clearly being led by a maniac, I have no idea what's going on with the mages, and the only public mourning I saw in that city was in a whisper. And on top of everything else, on top of every other horrible thing that's happening, their Empress is throwing her people's families at each other in a pointless civil war. Their leaders are failing them at every single level. People should be burning that place down, including Lady Vivienne's obscene chateau, but yes, Seeker Pentaghast, it sure was beautiful." She grit her teeth against her rising voice. Her own anger surprised her, sudden and sharp. She released her held breath in a clipped sigh. "Sorry. I'm not mad at you, obviously."

Cassandra released a held breath, as well. "I know."

"It's just--" Tony searched for the words, left hand clenching on the neck of the instrument. "I hate places like that. You see them all the time in San Francisco--these huge, glittering towers made of glass and steel, and they're amazing until you smell the piss and shit on the sidewalk in front of it. Because there's people living outside, sleeping against the walls of the tower, and they have nowhere else to piss and shit. The people in the tower throw away food every day, but if anyone tries to take it from the dumpster, they get beaten up or worse." She glared at her boots. "Maybe Orlais is different. Maybe they keep everything shiny with magic or something, but I really fucking doubt it, you know? Not after everything I've seen."

They spent a few moments in silence, both of them watching the fire. There was a bird in the distance, black and swift--one of Leliana's ravens, maybe, delivering an urgent message.

Cassandra was the one to speak first. "I did not know you felt this way. Perhaps I should have." Tony looked up at her, questioning. "You have always thought with your heart, Lady Antonia. In retrospect, I can see how Val Royeaux would be ridiculous to you. Especially right now."

Tony managed a small smile. "You and Lady Josephine, I swear." Cassandra raised an eyebrow. "You both talk about me like I'm some delicate flower, or something."

The Seeker scoffed. "I do not."

"My mistake. I must be 'thinking with my heart,' again."

"What I meant was, you..." She frowned at the fire, picking out her words. "You are not used to politics or nobility. But with the way you speak, it is easy for us--for me--to forget. You are better educated about more topics than nearly anyone else in the Inquisition. Such education usually comes at a high price, and I do not mean metaphorically."

Tony balked at her. "The way I speak--you think I sound like I'm rich?"

Cassandra, looking amused, nodded. "If you'll recall, when you first met Varric, he thought you might be of noble birth. So did I. Seeing you so disgusted by beauty confused me, but from what you have just said, you were actually disgusted by the displays of wealth, correct?"

"I don't sound rich," insisted Tony. "I talk like you!"

"At times," said Cassandra. "You do. And I am of noble birth, though I do not often speak about it." Tony looked up at her, betrayed. The Seeker said, "My name, in full, is longer than yours."

"Having a long name doesn't mean--" Tony cut herself off. "Does it? Here? Mean that?" Again, Cassandra nodded. Tony slumped against the log. "Fuck me. Does everybody think I'm a princess? Be honest."

"Not a princess." Cassandra smiled. Tony was glad at least one of them was having fun. "Although Cullen once asked me if you had a title other than Herald that you would prefer he use."

Tony groaned. Yet another reason she and the Commander couldn't seem to communicate like human beings. He probably thought she was some snooty asshole. Looking back, her efforts to be clear--and it had been an effort, it was exhausting to constantly worry about being understood--she must have come across as the worst kind of pedant: a wealthy pedant.

"This sucks," she said.

"Does it?"

"If he thinks I'm a spoiled brat, that's..." She sighed. "It's just too stupid. Why does stupid stuff keep happening to me?"

Cassandra raised her eyebrows. "You believe Cullen does not like you?"

"Why would he? He knows I'm a total novice about everything, but for some stupid reason, my perspective in meetings has weight. Sometimes, more weight than his. If I were him, I'd resent me a lot." She strummed a chord, settling in to mope. 

"I do not think he does." Cassandra began to pick at the fingers of her greaves, a nervous habit of hers. "You have done nothing but attempt to help the refugees at Haven since you arrived there. If anything, he..." She shook her head. "Well. I doubt very much that he resents you."

Her fingers found the opening notes of The Sound of Silence. "I'm the worst coworker he's ever had."

She heard Cassandra's armor clank as she shifted. "You are not. I promise you." Tony looked up, intrigued by the certainty in Cassandra's voice. The Seeker looked away, but explained. "It is not my story to tell, but before I recruited him for the Inquisition, he was stationed in Kirkwall, and before that, Ferelden's Circle. His career has been haunted by tragedy, in no small part due to his superiors in the Templar Order." She grimaced. "Particularly in Kirkwall."

Tony moved on from self-indulgent Simon and Garfunkel into something less pitying. "Should I ask?"

"It is a matter of public record, but I would not speak of it on Cullen's behalf."

"Huh." She rubbed her buzzing fingertips. "Are you--friends? You and the Commander?"

She considered it for a moment. "Perhaps. I consider him to be one of mine."

"Huh," Tony said again.

When Tony didn't continue speaking, Cassandra gave her a questioning look. "Is that strange to you?"

Was it strange? Both the Commander and the Seeker were warriors, accustomed to leading large groups into harrowing situations. Both of them wore armor almost exclusively, as if anticipating a skirmish at the breakfast table. She'd seen them talking to each other before around Haven, a two-person front line, square shoulders and severe expressions.

But Cassandra was different than Cullen, Tony knew. Cassandra got misty-eyed over love poetry. She smiled, and laughed, and raged at Varric when he got too cute with her. Now that she knew to look for it, Tony could see the nobility in her--she was her own Lancelot and Guinevere in one.

Tony hadn't always liked Cassandra, though. Cassandra used to be the scary knight who kicked chairs while Tony sat on them. She doubted that Cullen would also turn out to be a hopeless romantic, but she had no real way of knowing.

"What's he like?" It was a silly question, but Tony had to start somewhere.

"Commander Cullen?" Cassandra took a moment to compose her answer. "Honorable. Though he is no longer a Templar, I believe he still feels indebted to them in some ways. He is a skilled fighter, though you knew that." Tony looked at Cassandra with a grimace. "What?"

"What's he like," she repeated. "I don't know how to start a conversation about how honorable he is."

"Oh. I see." More worrying of her fingers. "He... enjoys chess?" Tony sighed. "Can you not ask him yourself?"

Tony all but rolled her eyes. "No, I can't. I can barely get a sentence out around him, unless I'm angry, in which case I can barely stop talking. If I just--if I get back to Haven, walk up to him and say, 'Hey, Commander, I hear you're an honorable person, what's that all about?' I don't think I'm going to get anywhere. He'll think I'm being a dick."

"Perhaps if you put less pressure on yourself to perform," suggested Cassandra, eyebrows raised again, significant. "You do not need to make him laugh."

Yes I do, Tony thought. Especially since Cassandra had presented it as a challenge. Instead, though, she said, "Good. I've done enough impossible shit, recently."

Solas emerged from his tent, face still a bit slack with sleep. He looked at the makeshift guitar in Tony's hands. "That is not how you play that instrument," he said.

"Good morning, Solas," said Tony, unperturbed. "Your bedhead looks terrible."

He didn't raise his hand to check, but she saw his fingers twitch and counted it as a victory.

-

Returning to Haven felt like coming home, in that Tony was caught between happiness and dread about it. Commander Cullen was the first familiar face she could pick out from the crowd, standing as he always did at the edge of the drilling soldiers. She rode past him without calling attention to herself, and he did not seem to see her.

Once her horse was back with Dennet, she walked over to the Commander, pack still on her back. "Howdy."

He gave her a glance before returning his attention to the drill. "Herald. How was Orlais?"

"Full of Orlesians," she said, voice flat. She watched his mouth twitch into a smile, then return to a grim line. Since she hadn't been travelling on foot, only a few days had passed since what she'd named the Wood Chopping Incident. It made sense that he'd be a little standoffish with her, now.

"How unfortunate." His eyes remained forward.

It made sense, but she didn't have to like it. "Meeting later?"

Tony didn't know why that question confused him, but it seemed to. "Tomorrow. We did not wish to rush you."

"Oh, yeah?" She ran her thumbs along the shoulder straps of her pack. "Makes sense. See you later, then, Commander. Stay warm."

Tony spent the afternoon settling in. She bathed, scrubbing her hair and body with a rough-cut hunk of soap. It dried her skin out and frizzed up her hair, but at least it got the grime off. After, she returned to her cabin and went about making herself feel human.

Josephine had gifted her a teeny bottle of hair oil, which Tony combed in with her fingers. It smelled like lavender, and the scent mixed with the warmth of the room made her drowsy. She lost herself in braiding her hair, pinning it up and away from her face, hoping that this time the style would hold for longer than three minutes.

Val Royeaux had been a shitshow. Mother Giselle had been right; the Chantry was not at all organized, let alone united. It was a chicken walking around with its head cut off, the last to know that it was dead. It gave the Inquisition the opportunity to look like the sensible alternative. She imagined that there would be an influx of faithful from Orlais to Haven over the next few weeks. The Lord Seeker had publicly announced that the Templars were no longer aligned with the Chantry. That meant that the highest-ranking members of the Chantry were... Tony did the math. Cassandra and Leliana, the Left and Right Hands of the former Divine.

Also, her. The "Herald of Andraste." That title must make her an honorary Sister at least.

"Fuck," she muttered.

Hair set, she pulled out her journal and flipped to a clean page. The thing was already half-full, poetry and song lyrics written out in painstaking penmanship. Her right hand was always stained with ink, the grey shadows of it too deep to wash off in the bath. 

Returned to Haven, she wrote, starting a bulleted list. Orlesian Chantry, Fereldan Chantry--linked, same lit., same faction. The idea that two countries that despise each other had the exact same religion was unsettling. Beliefs don't become universal because something good happened. Dwarven Chantry? Elven? Varric swore to the Maker sometimes, but Solas never did. Was there a non-invasive way to ask about their beliefs?

Red Jenny--grassroots organizing, she wrote, then crossed out. Grassroots anarchists. Chaos agents. Sera. The blonde elf that had killed a noble in front of Tony by way of introduction. Tony barely remembered what they'd talked about, the death had been so sudden and gruesome. After piercing the noble's tongue with an arrow, Sera had cheerfully spouted nonsense before inviting herself into the Inquisition. Tony didn't mind the recruitment, but she had to wonder about the motivations behind it.

Lady Vivienne. The Iron Lady. What to say about her? Tony had never gotten around to seeing The Devil Wears Prada, but she got major Meryl vibes from Vivienne. This woman was here because she was interested in power, and Tony could hardly blame her. Everything seemed to be aligning to make the Inquisition an actual going concern instead of a cult from Bumfuck, The Mountains.

"Fuck," she said again. She pushed the journal away from her, rested the quill in the bottle of ink, and began to pace around the cabin.

It was too much responsibility. She didn't know what she was doing--she never had, not even back in California. Her resume was full of lies, her credit score was a joke, and her apartment wasn't actually zoned for habitation. For her entire adult life, Tony had been skimming the surface of society, doing whatever she could to keep from sinking down below.

Now? Now, she was helping a group of people she barely knew fight a war she didn't understand. No matter how many sleepless nights she spent studying, there was simply no way for her to get the necessary knowledge base to make informed decisions. Every single person in Haven, from the cooks to the Commander, had political agendas they wanted Tony to further. She was ignorant, she was poor, and when she stopped to think about it, she was a little lonely. If she weren't her, she'd absolutely use her. She was the perfect stooge.

All because her hand had the audacity to glow.

She whiled away the daylight worrying, though she didn't know it until she stepped outside to eat. Still adrift in her thoughts, she ate outside the tavern, hands warm on her hot water and bowl of potage. Sunset made the snow pink, and if Tony unfocused her eyes she could almost pretend she was suspended in clouds.

Varric approached just as she was finishing. "Interested in a drink? I'm buying."

Tony smiled, genuinely considering it, before shaking her head. "I appreciate it, but I think I'm just..." She shrugged. "'People'd out?' Is that a phrase, here?"

"No, but I might steal it." He gestured for her empty cup and bowl, and she gave them to him. "I'll return these. Go rest."

She snorted and stood, brushing snow off of her long coat. An entire evening stretched out ahead of her, and her without any illegally downloaded movies to fill it. After days of horseback riding, all she should do was lie down and turn her brain off, but she'd never been able to master that trick. Figuring a walk around Haven would end with her lost in the dark, she headed to the Chantry. At least it would be warm in there.

It was a beautiful building, if she ignored what it was for. It looked like most people were ignoring its intended purpose; there were bundles of firewood on the seats, barrels of preserved food in the aisles, and even a sack of grain on the pulpit. There were candles along the walls and on every flat surface, save the pews, and even with their light it was always just slightly too dark. Tony found herself lingering by a column, running her fingers along the seam where the hardwood met the stone. Was it called a seam, in architecture? A join, maybe.

Haven was so far from everything else. It was odd to think that someone--a large group of someones--had decided to place such a huge, solid building here. Maybe when the snow melted, Tony would be able to see the ruins of a much larger city, foundations of long-since fallen houses circling the entire lake. Or maybe Haven had been meant to be bigger, and never quite gained the popularity. Maybe a thoroughfare had become a mere road, then a trail, then nothing. It occurred to her that, with no satellite network taking pictures of every square inch of the planet, entire towns could just disappear. How had this Chantry persisted?

After a moment, she remembered the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and felt like an idiot. Of course this Chantry was impressive; it was the last stop before what was once an incredibly holy site. The site which was now mostly cinders and bones.

The large square doors opened, and a few families started filing in. Tony recognized a mother and her daughters as refugees from Haven, but otherwise the crowd was composed of strangers. A Chantry Sister held up a long, thin wooden stick and began lighting more candles. Tony felt a buzz in the air, though everything was otherwise very quiet. Tony watched as Mother Giselle moved to the pulpit. When the Mother saw the sack of grain, she had the good grace to smile.

"Whoops," said Tony, moving to the dias to pick it up. "How did this get here?"

Mother Giselle brought her weathered hands to the burlap, as if to help. "Thank you, Your Worship."

Hearing that title from Mother Giselle, an actual religious authority, made her fumble. The bag was far heavier than Tony had expected; that realization came too late, as the grain inside began to rush off the pulpit and into Tony's arms. Before she could react--before she could even bend her knees and brace against it--there was a wall along her side, and strong arms under her own.

Tony gasped, but managed to keep her arms steady. She looked over her shoulder and saw black fur, cold and damp from snow.

"Here," said Cullen, voice quiet but no-nonsense, "let go, I've got it."

She would have dropped the grain without him, she understood. That said, it was an unwieldy thing, and she didn't trust that Cullen had it balanced right. "It's okay. Where do we put it?" Cullen hesitated, but the bag was too heavy to argue. "We've got it," she insisted.

He gave her a face very similar to the one Solas made when he was trying not to roll his eyes. "By the pillar there," he said.

They shuffled it over, Tony's hands acting more as safeguards than anything else. He carried it without visible effort, as if transporting a pillow. By the time he was lowering it to the ground, Tony had stopped pretending to help.

He straightened, then frowned at her. "You're here for the service?"

Tony looked between him and the crowd, surprised. There were people filing into the pews. How had she lost track of time so quickly? "I--guess?"

It seemed the people had already taken notice of her. She was standing by the pulpit, after all, in between Mother Giselle and the Commander of the Inquisition. She shoved her hands into her pockets, hoping that the mark's glow would be blocked by the double layer of gloves and coat. She saw a little girl point at her and whisper to her mother, face full of awe, and her heart sank.

She looked up at him, feeling unmoored. "I didn't realize there was an evening Mass."

"Mass?" But then, before Tony could explain, he shook his head and put a hand at her shoulder blade. "It doesn't matter."

Tony was too surprised by the sudden contact to resist. He began to steer her toward the side wall, away from the faithful gathered in the pews, and all but frogmarched her out of the Chantry.

They entered the frigid evening together. He only removed his hand from her back once she was out on the dirt road again. Tony turned, prepared to be angry at his immediate dismissal, but he was out there with her. He pushed the doors closed behind him and left them both on the freezing stoop.

Tony released a breath, but couldn't feel totally relaxed just yet. "What was that about?"

Cullen gave her a look as confused as she felt. "You do not wish to be called Herald," he said. Tony continued to look up at him, gobsmacked. He frowned. "There is a service at the first of every month, my Lady. You--several times, you've mentioned..."

Only then did Tony realize why he'd basically thrown her out. She hadn't realized her hesitation had been so obvious. If it had been obvious enough for Cullen to pick up on it, she must have looked awful in there.

Breathless and vaguely embarrassed, she said, "Thank you."

He began to pick at the fingers of his greaves. It was the exact same nervous gesture that Cassandra sometimes made. "I apologize, I should have..." He cleared his throat. "I did not want you to be..."

She smiled, fingers curling in her coat pockets. "Thank you. For--" She laughed. "For helping me carry that thing."

Cullen smiled back, and it was awkward on his face, as though he didn't quite know how to do it. "I'm still amazed you tried it alone."

Tony would have leaned against the stone doorway behind her if it weren't covered in frost. Instead she played with her gloves and the lining of her pockets, searching for threads to pull. "It was instinctive, I guess. You don't often catch me attempting feats of strength."

His smile widened, and he considered the door as if he could see beyond it. After a moment, he focused again on the road beneath them. "I would have done the same, in your stead." He squinted. "I did do the same, but--as you know, I was once a Templar."

Tony nodded, but the question stayed in his eyes. She said, "I went to Catholic school for a very long time. It's... I guess it's just... ingrained in me." He raised his eyebrows, questioning, but she shook her head. "Being a Templar--you were part of the Chantry?"

"Yes." He looked from her to the doors of the Chantry, then out to the center of Haven. "Forgive me, only... I know how voices in the threshold can echo."

"Gotcha."

She strode out into the night, shoulders hunched against a sudden wind. He followed her, his fur ruff no doubt keeping the chill from his face. The campfire was built high and bright, and it was surrounded by people. Tony couldn't see Varric, but Sera was clearly visible, a bottle of wine in either hand. Tony braced against the idea of entering a huge group. After the mission to Val Royeaux, she still felt too tired of crowds.

"Here," he said. Tony looked up. Cullen tilted his head to the left. "This way."

He led her to the side of the Chantry, where there were lit torches and a windbreak from a rocky slope, but no people. It was still out in the cold and snow, but without the wind the temperature almost felt bearable. They walked alongside each other until Cullen moved ahead to face her. They stopped under a large torch that had been inlaid into the Chantry wall to protect the flame.

"I didn't know this was here," said Tony. "Cool hiding spot."

"Haven is not a populous town, but it is small," said Cullen. "There are few places where one can find true quiet."

There was singing in the Chantry, but the words were unintelligible. The tune was beautiful, though, and the voices of the faithful could be made out through the high windows. Tony took a deep breath, enjoying the relative privacy. She'd definitely come back to this place during the day. Maybe she'd bring a chair.

Tony glanced at Cullen and noticed him watching her, as if waiting for something. "I was just thinking," she said, "maybe I could get some reading done out here when the sun's up."

"You do," he started, then stopped, then started again. "I mean--do you read often?"

She smiled, but brought her eyebrows together. He was so weird, sometimes. "A lot, yeah. There's a lot to get up to speed on, you know? History, culture, religion..." She gave a small shrug. "General literacy, when it comes to the local language. It still takes time for me to decipher Trade runes even when my eyes aren't tired. I'm used to having reading glasses."

Cullen stilled. "Reading glasses?"

"Cheaters," said Tony. "That's what I'd call 'em, anyway. I'm farsighted." He shook his head, and she explained. "I can see you, and, like, that rock," she pointed, "but reading books and things within arm's length... it's harder. After a while, my eyes cross."

Any trace of his amusement was gone. "You have been attempting to learn to read without being able to see?"

"I can see," she said, confused by his sudden tone shift. "It's just reading that's annoying. And not all reading, just reading runes." He glowered at her, and she sighed in irritation. "What was I supposed to do? Ask Threnn for glasses?"

He was frowning, now. "Yes."

"I'm not blind," she protested. "And supplies are--you're the one who's always talking about resources, and glasses have got to be really expensive, here."

"You--" He scoffed, seeming to barely hold onto his temper. "You are so--preoccupied with money."

She frowned. Was he just stupid? That would explain some things. "Yeah," she said, voice slow and clear, as if speaking to a child. "When you don't have any, it comes up a lot."

"If this were a Circle--" He cut himself off. He looked annoyed, as if Tony were the one throwing a tantrum. "Regardless, there is a difference between frivolities and eyeglasses, my Lady. You should have asked."

Tony crossed her arms. "And paid with what?"

"With nothing," he said, "because you are the Herald, and they are necessary."

"For fuck's sake," she swore, voice suddenly too loud. He flinched and glanced toward the Chantry's stone wall, as if he expected people to have their ears pressed against the opposite side. Tony swallowed and lowered her voice to a more respectful grumble. "No, Commander, I'm not. I'm not the Herald of Andraste, and I'm not going to use that fucking title to spend the Inquisition's money for no reason."

They glared at each other. Tony refused to feel unreasonable, and Cullen clearly refused to budge. If he weren't so tall and strong and intimidating, she would be tempted to give him a noogie.

Cullen looked away first. His face was in shadow, the torchlight revealing the reds and blues hidden in the black fur of his collar.

If he thought pouting was the way to convince her, he was way off the mark. Tony asked, "What if this were a Circle?"

For a moment, he hid his face behind a hand, rubbing his tired eyes. When he surfaced, he looked grim. "If it were, you wouldn't have needed to ask. Someone would have noticed and ordered them for you. And they'd be," he said, bitter humor leaking into his voice, "ordered from an actual city, not purchased from whatever merchant happened to pass by. There'd be more than questionable stew to eat, and there would be actual instructors available to teach--teach anything. Archery and swordsmanship, but literacy, too. History. There would be a library," he said, then laughed. It was not a happy sound. "Sometimes, I can almost forget what they truly are." His face soured. "Or were, I suppose."

As he spoke, Tony's frustration sublimated, turning from a solid lump of anger into little more than air. Cullen wasn't being stupid or unreasonable. He was struggling, same as everyone else. He'd joined the Templars when he was thirteen, he'd said. How much had the Templars provided him? Food, clothes, armor, schooling? Tony imagined growing up in a private school and then suddenly learning that private schools were outlawed. 

"What were they?" Tony asked.

His jaw set. "Prisons."

That lined up with what Tony had learned so far. "Well-supplied prisons, though," she said.

His shoulders slumped. "Yes."

She considered him. "Can I ask you something?" He looked up, nodded. "Why did you want to become a Templar?"

Cullen shifted his weight, hands resting on his sword. It didn't worry her, now; it was simply what he did when he was thinking. "As a child, they were..." He shook his head and picked a different starting point. "The town where I grew up was not so different from Haven, really. Our Chantry wasn't half this nice. When I first saw the Templars, I saw..." He smiled, seemingly at himself. "People who weren't farmers. People who were strong and educated, wholly committed to something larger than themselves."

Tony thought he sounded wistful. It made her smile, too. "And the armor's shiny. That couldn't've hurt."

He smirked. "They did look impressive, I admit." He looked out into the mountains, eyes focused on his memories. "I begged them to teach me whatever they could. I knew what it meant--a lifetime of dedicated service--and I was willing to do whatever it took to join their ranks."

Tony imagined Commander Cullen at seven years old, just as serious and earnest as he was now. "They must have loved you."

He laughed, face pinched with a slight grimace. "Ah, no. I'm told I was very irritating about it."

"Who, you? I don't believe it."

After a moment, his amused expression slowly shifted into something more pensive. "I... this isn't what I meant to speak with you about."

Tony tilted her head. "You had a plan for this conversation?"

"Yes," he said. Then, immediately: "I mean, no. I--"

"Chill out, Commander," she said, nearly laughing, "You aren't in trouble. What's up?"

"Before you left for Orlais," he started, and now that Tony was listening for it she could hear that these words were rehearsed, "you mentioned not being permitted to do many things, even while there is clearly much that needs to be done. I realize that your days are busier now than they were, but there is still the matter of learning how to defend yourself." If he noticed the way Tony's face fell, he didn't react to it. "I've heard reports from witnesses at the rifts you have closed. While you are travelling with accomplished fighters, you cannot rely on others to keep you safe in the field. You must learn to keep yourself safe. Otherwise, the risk is too high."

Tony pushed her hair out of her face. "The risk to the mark?"

"And to the person wielding it," he said. "I've noticed you carry a dagger, now. Do you know how to use it?"

She'd used it to sharpen her quill, once. She'd almost lost a finger doing it. "Nope."

"You need to learn, my Lady." His brow furrowed. "Truthfully, I do not know why you have let things go on for this long without learning."

It was, annoyingly, a fair question. "I don't want to learn," she said. He did not respond to that flimsy excuse, which was just about what it deserved. Tony sighed. "I don't think I'll be good at it. Plus, since I travel with Cassandra and everyone, I don't think it matters that much."

"Of course it matters," he insisted.

She shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you, Commander. You teach people how to kill other people. I don't want to kill anybody."

He blinked at her. "I have no intention of teaching you to become an assassin. I mean to help you defend yourself." Again, she shrugged, and he frowned in response. "I'd thought you must be some form of pacifist, but seeing as you almost accosted a merchant on the way to Val Royeaux--"

"What? I--'accosted' is a little--" How did he know about that? "Who told you?"

It was his turn to look at her as though she might be slow. "Cassandra," he said. "She sends regular reports from the field."

Tony had never noticed. Maybe she was slow, after all. Either way, she found herself in the uncomfortable position of being anti-violence, but not so anti-violence that she could wiggle out of this. "Introducing a weapon into my social interactions seems..." She made a so-so gesture.

That got him to smile again. "Then... is it just that you are cautious?"

"What else would it be?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I understand that Cassandra has... mentioned, perhaps, that she would like for me to train you. I'd thought--rather, I was... concerned," he finally said, "that the reason for your hesitation was... well, more personal."

Tony blinked at him, waiting for him to elucidate. When he didn't, she said, "Thanks for being polite, but I have no idea what you're..." Finally, the penny dropped. "You thought I had a problem with you? I don't, I promise I don't."

He sighed. "We haven't--it occurs to me that we haven't had the opportunity to speak, really, and during meetings, you can be--"

"If," she said, holding up a hand, "you say 'emotional,' I'm gonna be pissed."

He shut his mouth and looked at her. After a very long series of seconds, he said, "Passionate."

Tony couldn't hold back her grin at that. "Smooth."

For a single breath, he smiled. Serious once more, he said, "We've sent you into so much danger already. First the Breach, then the Crossroads--even Val Royeaux was risky. One of my duties as Commander of the Inquisition is to make certain we do not take such risks, yet we have been with alarming frequency. You have been, on our behalf." He met her eyes, expression the epitome of sincerity. "I realize you've been all but press-ganged into joining our cause. I have my regrets about that, but even so, I must insist that you learn the basics of self-defense."

She wished he could be less reasonable about all this. If he'd made a fuss and demanded she learn, she could have refused and felt self-righteous about it. As it was, Cullen had made it impossible to refuse. He was right. The fact that he was also looking at her with such earnestness was an unnecessary, but enjoyable, side effect.

After a moment, she grumbled, "Fine. But I'm not going to like it," she promised.

He all but snorted at that. "Luckily, that is not required."

They moved from their alcove, and the wind immediately rose to meet them. Cullen managed to look Byronic, whereas Tony got hit in the face by a fallen braid. She pushed it out of her face, annoyed, and glanced at the Commander to see if he'd noticed. If he had, he was doing a fair job pretending he hadn't.

Before they went their separate ways, Tony said, "So, these reports--the ones from Cassandra--"

"Concern Inquisition matters only," he promised. "She isn't--no one is spying on you, Herald."

"People are totally spying on me, but that's not what I wanted to ask about." She tucked the fallen braid behind her ear. "She wouldn't have mentioned the poetry, then, I'm guessing." From his nonplussed expression, Tony knew that she hadn't. "She's asked me for a few recitals, at this point--really saccharine stuff from back home. Did you know she's a total sucker for love poetry?"

"I did not," he said, still confused. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Revenge," she admitted easily. "She's the one who sold me out. Anyway, ask her about it sometime. She gets all red in the face, it's amazing."

Cullen shook his head, but he couldn't quite hide his smile. "I see." He paused, considering the middle distance, before looking back to her. "Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast," he said.

Tony beamed up at him. "No way."

"Though--you did not hear it from me," he warned.

"Hey, my lips are sealed." She patted him on the back, just once, the way she would have anyone else. It was friendly. She noted the warmth of his back the way she would have anyone's, she was absolutely certain.

If, when they parted, her right hand was buzzing from the contact just as much as her left from the mark, no one had to know.

Chapter Text

When faced with removing a Band-Aid, Tony wanted to be the sort of person who ripped the whole thing off at once. So, when she awoke before dawn the next morning, she did not roll over and go back to sleep. She lit her lamp and got dressed, layering every shirt she had under her long woolen duster. Meaning to meet Cullen before drills, she stepped out into the frosty morning.

Immediately, she heard the ringing of swords against shields.

"What the fuck," she muttered, clutching her collar closed and crunching through the ice to the grounds outside Haven.

Yep, there he was, standing in the snow at God Only Knows O'Clock with his recruits.

She crunched over to him. "What the fuck," she repeated, arms tightly crossed to brace against the snowy morning. "You don't sleep at all, do you?"

"Good morning, Herald," he said, frowning. "Did you need something?"

She gestured around them. "Here for lessons. Or--not lessons, you're busy and I wouldn't spring that on you out of nowhere, but--I'd call it 'job shadowing.'" She shrugged, standing beside him by the tents. "I almost brought my journal with me for notes, but would the inkwell freeze out here?"

He took a few seconds to process all of that before replying, "You wish to oversee me?"

"I'm not your boss," she said. "Just, if I'm going to be learning how to fight, I need to get a little more familiar with... all of it." She wished she had a hat; her ears stung. "Plus, yeah, a little, with the 'seeing' part of 'overseeing.' I don't really know what it is you do, if I'm honest." He seemed surprised, so she clarified. "You 'command the Inquisition's army,' yeah, but what does that mean? What's a typical day look like?"

He scrutinized her. He opened his mouth, then clearly decided against what he was about to say. Instead, he said, "Are you truly that cold? You're shivering."

"Should I be worried about my boots?" She hopped from foot to foot. "Does leather freeze? Listen, I've never been awake in Haven this early, and it's like negative a billion degrees out."

"Return after sunrise."

It didn't sound like a suggestion, but she ignored it like one. "How are you not cold?" She eyed his mantle with suspicion. "How warm is that thing? You look like you're wearing half a bear."

He looked caught between a smile and a frown. "It's not half."

There was an approaching crunch of snow, and they were interrupted by Ernis the runner. "Your Worship," he greeted. "Commander, Sister Leliana wished this to be delivered to you first thing this morning."

Cullen thanked Ernis and accepted the report. Tony asked, "When is the Commander's 'first thing in the morning,' Ernis?"

The runner shrugged. "Before the first guard rotation, I'd guess." He blinked. "Er. My Lady Herald."

Tony pulled a face. "Don't call me that. It's too fucking early."

Ernis nodded, managing a smile. "Understood."

Cullen surfaced from reading the missive. "This should be fine. Please return it to her with my approval."

"Ser." Ernis accepted the papers and saluted them both before turning back to Haven.

"Herald," said Cullen, then winced. "Or--Lady Antonia, you do not have to be here at this hour."

She considered the gates behind them, but then focused on the drilling soldiers once more. Most were too busy to give her any notice, but the sparring pair closest to them had slowed considerably, glancing over with wide eyes. Tony didn't recognize them, and assumed that their misplaced awe was due to knowing her title, but not who she was. Perhaps she had made a mistake not doing this sooner; she didn't want an army of faithful. The very idea added to her shivers.

Anyway, she didn't have to be there, but dozens of other people did. The Commander did. It seemed only fair for her to put in the hours once.

"Ignore me," she said. "I'm just here to watch."

He looked entirely unconvinced. "Ignore you," he said, as if it were a joke that hadn't landed. He looked out over the training field. "As you like."

As the sky gradually lightened, Tony observed the soldier's training. Even though she was standing right beside Cullen and could presumably see everything he was seeing, the advice he called to his soldiers was confusing to her. How could he tell when someone's shield was too low, or stance too wide? Everyone was a different height, weight, and body structure. How could he know what they needed to do to improve their defense? Was it math? Was he doing math?

He sighed, some invisible weight on his shoulders. "Do you have a question, my Lady?"

"Hmm?" She looked up at him, surprised to be addressed.

"It is... difficult," he said, "to ignore someone hopping about right next to me."

Tony did not want to lose her toes to this adventure, so she continued hopping, though she attempted to do it more subtly. "I do have a question, actually--when you say 'fight the opponent, not the blade,' I don't know what that means."

Eyes on his soldiers, he explained. "At first, all fighters look at the sword instead of the man because the sword is what they fear. They must learn to ignore it. It is just a tool; it's your opponent who's actually dangerous."

"'Just a tool,'" repeated Tony, incredulous. "A very big, very scary tool for killing people."

"If you fear it on sight, you've already lost." He pointed out a sparring pair on the far left. "Observe Brandyn and Valora. Watch his shield."

It took Tony a moment to figure out who was who--everyone was wearing helmets and faces were obscured by collars--but Brandyn's beard poked out and gave him away. As instructed, she watched his shield, a small wooden buckler attached to his forearm. The steps of their drill were fairly straightforward: he advanced, she retreated, she parried, then one of them would swing. Tony couldn't tell what the impetus for the swing was, but she did see that Valora was fast. When she drew her blade back, Brandyn would lift his buckler to cover his face, leaving his side open for her to hit.

It happened twice in a row before Cullen called out to them. "Ser Brandyn! Too early! Ser Valora, mind your shoulder." The two of them paused to catch their breaths, nodding to the Commander to show they'd heard. Volume returned to conversational, Cullen said to Tony, "By paying attention to your opponent's body, you will be able to see where they are next planning to move or strike. Ignore the blade, focus on the person in front of you, and you have a chance."

Tony's mind was still reeling. Was he paying that much attention to everyone? There must have been forty people drilling out there. "Just a chance?"

"It's all we ever have." He looked down at her, expression firm and resolute. "With practice and luck, we stand a better one, but no one enters a battle with guarantees."

She stared at him. "How can you... I mean, Jesus. How is that not pants-shittingly terrifying?"

His expression cracked. He looked away from her and cleared his throat through a laugh. "Ah. They must learn to ignore that, as well."

Tony stared at the soldiers, entirely boggled. "I don't know how you can do that. That's--fear is a survival instinct, Commander. How do you teach your soldiers how to ignore it?"

"I have never been asked to," he said. "They must already know, though perhaps they wouldn't be able to explain it." He considered her. "Is that--are you..." He floundered for a moment before asking, "Upset?"

She sighed. "Philosophically? Of course I am. 'Fear is the mind-killer,' sure, but it's also the killer-killer, now?" Aware that she was no longer making much sense, she started again, removing her hands from her pockets to help her speak. "Bravery is usually defined as conquering fear, not as ignoring it. But you aren't training people to be brave, you're training people to fight, and I don't know if that's a meaningful distinction or not. Or--I guess the real question is, what is the desired end result of this training?" She gestured to the practicing soldiers, as well as to the gate behind them. "Do we want the soldiers to guard Haven? To go to the Crossroads and defend it? To hunt demons out in the Hinterlands?"

Cullen watched her hands move. Tony's fingers ached from the cold, but gesturing made it easier for her to express herself--she couldn't help it. He said, "Potentially, all of those things. Most likely, even more."

"So," she said, hoping to God she was wrong about this, "you and all these people wake up every morning and practice hitting each other in various specific ways with the faint hope that one of those ways will save you from literally any enemy? From demon to human to--I don't know, a really aggressive seagull?"

He frowned at the last example, but nodded.

"That sucks," she told him.

Cullen neither agreed nor disagreed. Tony supposed that worrying about it wasn't the most productive use of his time. As for her, she was still trying to wrap her mind around being so "in the moment" during a potentially lethal situation that her anxiety wouldn't trigger. It sounded impossible.

The sun rose, and eventually Tony no longer needed to shuffle to keep warm. A runner arrived with tea for them both, and Cullen announced that practice had completed for that shift. As Tony warmed her hands on her tea, she listened to Cullen have a string of one-on-ones with the soldiers, offering advice that had been too specific or complex to simply yell at them earlier.

It ended up feeling like eavesdropping, but she wasn't hiding behind anything. She was just short.

Cullen addressed the soldiers by name: "Ser Aston, well done. How is your wrist?" And, "Ser Rowen, you'll be taking the last shift, correct?" Tony began to prickle with embarrassment. More and more, it was becoming clear to her that Cullen's attempt to send Lilan away from their pregnant sister had been a fluke. She'd managed to find the one detail he hadn't known, and had rubbed his face in it.

After the procession had finished, Cullen looked tired, but pleased. She recognized the look; it was an expression she'd worn almost constantly when she taught a rowdy group of students. "Can I ask you something? Do you have experience training recruits?"

He hummed as he sipped his tea. "As Knight-Captain, my responsibilities never extended to training. I studied tactics, of course, but practical application of strategy came later."

"You're a good teacher," she told him.

The effect was similar to the sunrise. He smiled, and she almost had to look away, it was so bright and warm. "Thank you. That is--from you, that is high praise."

She scalded her tongue on her tea in an attempt to get her shit together. It was a middling success. "How's it going for you? I have to assume you're a morning person to be out here at this hour--or did you not make the schedule?"

He considered this. "We are currently on a four-shift rotation, where every shift has training overseen by an officer. I had hoped that we would have more officers to start, but outside of a Circle..." He winced. "I have few fond memories of the Fereldan Circle of Magi, and none of the Gallows, but..."

"The structure was nice," guessed Tony. "Who else oversees the training? Ser Rylen?"

Cullen's face pinched. He brought the heel of his hand to one of his eyes as if pushing a headache back inside.

Tony frowned. "Cullen."

"Cassandra has offered," he said, hedging. "Only, she is so often otherwise occupied, and when she is out in the field..."

"Cullen," she said, one hand on her hip and the other on her teacup. "I'm going to ask you this one last time: when in God's name do you sleep?"

"It is not an ideal situation," he said instead of anything useful. "But it is only temporary. More recruits arrive daily, and some will likely be soldiers from Orlais escaping the civil war, and there is that Warden Leliana's heard about. I wouldn't mind help from a Grey Warden; they're meant to be very skilled."

She grunted into her tea. Potential future help didn't inspire any confidence in her. The problem was Cullen working himself to death in anticipation of people who might never arrive.

"And," he sighed, "you're annoyed again."

"Is this a Chantry thing?" Tony asked, trying not to glare at him. "Self-sacrifice? Martyrdom? You read Threnodies and were like, 'time to punish myself for bringing sin to Heaven by standing in the snow and hollering at people'?"

His surprise was obvious. "You've read the Canticle of Threnodies?"

Her surprise matched his. "Dude, I've read the whole Chant. Seems pretty much required, don't you think? Especially if we all decide to approach the Templars."

"Do you wish to?" He turned to face her more fully, hands on the pommel of his sword. "Approach the Templars?"

She drained her tea and put the cup on the ground to free up her hands. Gesturing, she said, "The Breach is a hole in the Veil, right? And Templars' abilities are all focused on strengthening the Veil to counter or nullify a mage's attempts at contacting the Fade through the Veil, right? That's what magic is; the Fade is informed by will, mages will a spell into existence and pull it through--bang. So theoretically, if there is a bigass hole in the Veil, you should call the people who have dedicated their lives to patching it up." She frowned. "Darning it? I don't actually know anything about sewing."

She'd confused him. "It... the Veil is not literally a Veil, my Lady."

"Accuracy is important in metaphors. Anyway, throwing more magic at the problem seems risky. Plus, you know, possession." She spread her hands wide. "If Enchanter Fiona and the rebel mages come to Haven, wouldn't the thinness of the Veil put them at risk? I don't want that on my conscience, really."

He stared at her.

She shifted her weight, uncomfortable. "I do listen to you during meetings, you know."

"I never doubted that," he said. "I am simply..." He shook his head, a smile spreading on his face. "You've learned a great deal about all this in a remarkably short length of time, and--when do you sleep, I wonder?"

She smiled back, feeling happily flustered. "I--shut up."

He didn't quite laugh, but she could tell it was close.

Tony cleared her throat and wondered what time it was. She put her hand in her pocket, reaching for a phone that hadn't ever been there. "Uh, so usually I meet with Josephine about now. What's your day look like?"

He rolled his shoulders, loosening up whatever constant tension they had. "Second shift has begun, and I mean to oversee their training at the end of it. Before then, a meeting with Cassandra about the needs of the Templars already here; some are having difficulties adjusting." That could have meant anything, but he didn't elaborate. "Then, Master Harritt and I have a standing discussion about arms and armor." He looked up, seeming to just remember something. "There was iron in the Hinterlands, you said? Unclaimed deposits?"

"Yeah. Also onyx, but that's for staves, right? Do you count magic staves as arms?"

Cullen ended up walking with Tony through Haven, discussing resources and their potential acquisition all the way. Tony took only one detour, returning their teacups to the Singing Maiden. Flissa was still asleep--she always closed the tavern--so Tony found Jehanne instead. Jehanne, an Orlesian elf, was busy serving breakfast to the soldiers that had just gotten off shift, but she spared a smile and nod to Tony and Cullen anyway.

"Is there any chance we could grow our own elfroot?" Tony paused at the door to the Chantry, knowing she was late and not particularly caring. "Or get elfroot seeds? How long do they take to germinate?"

"I would not start seeds in this weather," said Cullen, "but Adan would know better than I."

"I'll ask." She smiled at the Commander. "Enjoy breakfast with Cassandra."

He blinked. "It is a meeting, not breakfast."

Tony adopted a guileless expression. "Because you've already eaten?"

"Because..." He frowned at her, no doubt trying to solve the incredibly easy social puzzle she'd given him. "Why would... What do you mean?"

"One time," she said, pausing to open the Chantry door for a passing Sister, "good morning--one time, I thought I was saving time by skipping meals between classes. I went from lecture to lecture without even drinking water. Then, in the middle of my lesson, I fainted in front of two hundred people." She caught his eye and smiled. "So you're having breakfast with Cassandra, or you're making a mistake."

His frown grew more and more incredulous as she spoke. "I..." He started, then released a sigh. "I suppose I could eat something."

She smiled brilliantly up at him. "Good idea." She opened the door to the Chantry and stepped in, offering a, "Have a good day, Commander," over her shoulder. Her last glimpse of him was of his sincerely befuddled expression. Perhaps he'd never been bullied in quite that way, before. Tony made a mental note to do it more often.

-

Tony took a nap that afternoon, motivated out of spite more than anything else. She woke up just in time for a quick dinner, then headed for the Chantry. For the first time, Tony was happy with the meeting's location; yes, churches still made her feel on edge, but the stone walls kept in the warmth and the smell of beeswax candles was comforting. She had her notes in her pockets this time, and smiled, grateful that pockets existed in Thedas. One of these days, she was going to have to write a list of all the things for which she should be grateful. Maybe that would keep the emotional outbursts at bay.

"Before we begin," said Cassandra, looking determined as ever, "there is something I must say."

There had been a time in Tony's life where, if someone had started a conversation with her that earnestly, she would have immediately started roasting them. Sadly, that time had passed, and Tony bit back any jokes she could tell to lighten the mood.

The Seeker looked around the table, focusing on each of them in turn. "We cannot continue as we have. It is clear to me that, in the absence of any evidence, we must take Lady Antonia at her word about her homeland."

Tony's smile immediately fell from her face. "What?"

Cassandra's dark eyes caught the candlelight. "I have been thinking about what you said at the Crossroads." At Tony's lack of understanding, Cassandra returned her attention to the group. "As we have travelled, Lady Antonia has recited poetry, phrases, countless things which I have never heard before." She shook her head. "Perhaps a clever liar would be able to create some of what she has said, but not all of it. I do not believe her to be an actor."

It was surprisingly touching to hear. Tony took a shaky breath, wondering if saying "thank you" would be appropriate. Before she could decide, Leliana opened her mouth.

"Not an actor," said the Spymaster, "but still, perhaps, an outside agent." Cassandra glared at Leliana, but it seemed to have no effect. "Lady Antonia has said herself that she does not remember what happened at the Conclave. There are ways to erase and create memories in order to make someone unknowingly act to the benefit of someone else."

"And has she?" Cassandra put a hand on the table, anchoring herself as if she expected the debate to turn physical. "Everything she has done, we have asked her to do. Who benefits from helping the Inquisition, other than the Inquisition?"

Leliana's face remained blank, but Tony thought she saw her lips thin. "I do not know."

Cassandra's lip curled. "We cannot be united when we do not trust our own people. We cannot--"

"Don't be naïve, Cassandra," snapped Leliana. "It is an impossible story. You know it is."

Lady Josephine looked between them, eyes wide, as if watching a particularly scary tennis match. By contrast, Cullen was looking at Tony. Watching Tony, making her skin prickle. What was he trying to see? If the truth could be read off of her face, surely it would be easier for everyone to accept.

"Hers is not the only impossible story I have heard," said Cassandra. "Not in regards to the Maker."

Something in those words must have been deeply insulting, because Leliana's eyes flashed. "You will not use that against me," she said, voice low.

Cassandra kept pushing. "Why is this so difficult for you? Have you not believed--"

"Enough." Leliana stepped toward the table, hands flat on the surface of the map. Under her fingers, the names of a dozen Fereldan cities were obscured. "My faith is not on trial. I will not speak of this with you. Not here."

Tony's mind was racing, trying to figure out what secret thing they were discussing. Was her being from a different world linked with her being called the Herald of Andraste, somehow? She'd been thinking of them as two different things, but maybe that was an unusual perspective. That title hadn't been her idea, nor had getting her hand gauged been her call. Maybe there was a part of the Chant she'd missed that covered women falling out of the sky, but she had to doubt it.

"So," said Tony. "Break?"

Everyone but Leliana looked at her. Josephine, appearing relieved, said, "Yes. Perhaps we could reconvene to start again in a few minutes."

Tony, Josephine, and Cullen left the meeting room while Leliana and Cassandra stayed inside. Whatever was going on between them, Tony was happy to let them hash it out in private. Meanwhile, it was past dinnertime, and Tony would have bet money that none of them had eaten, yet. Tony asked, "Should we get snacks?"

Cullen looked mildly confused by the suggestion, but Josephine smiled and said, "A good instinct, Your Worship."

"None of you eat enough," said Tony. "Or, frankly, sleep enough." They stepped out into the night, and Tony shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat.

"The work has been..." Josephine's smile wavered as she thought of the best word to use. "Demanding."

Tony winced. "How bad?"

"Which part?" Josephine tucked a stray lock of hair behind a delicate ear. "Assuring the nobility of three different countries that you are not simply a power-hungry commoner? Establishing trust in an Inquisition led by a complete unknown? Gathering funds when everyone on this side of the Amaranthine believes you to be a charlatan at best?" Josephine brought her hand almost to her face, but noticed her ink-stained thumb and did not complete the gesture. "Forgive me. Yes, it has been difficult. All of it."

Tony led the way to the tavern and considered their options. The books on heraldry she'd skimmed were Leviticus-level dense, but they did provide certain inspiration. "When I first met Varric," she said, "he said, with a name like mine, that I must be Antivan."

"It is a popular theory," said Josephine. Cullen moved to the front, holding open the door for both of them. They both thanked him, entering the warmth of the tavern ahead of him. "There are three families claiming you, including a Lord Gutierrez. The similarity between your surnames is barely anything, but it is not nothing, and a talented man could do more with less."

The tavern was alight and bustling, every table laden with drinks and surrounded by people. Several people marked their entrance, and the Commander had to stop and acknowledge a dozen salutes with a nod of his head. Tony noticed Ser Rylen sitting with Varric, cards in both of their hands.

Tony asked, "Do the soldiers get a salary?"

Commander Cullen raised his eyebrows. "Of course."

"Because Ser Rylen's about to lose his." She pointed him out in the crowd.

He sighed. "That is his decision," he said, sounding like a disappointed mother.

From that tone, it was clear that the Commander did not play cards. Tony added it to her mental list of details about him--not in a pro or con column, but simply to help her sketch what sort of person he was. His default seemed to be acting like a hollow suit of armor with a head attached, but the mask slipped easily when prodded.

Flissa finally returned from delivering tankards to a back table. Her cheeks were flushed, and they only grew redder when she saw Tony's group. "Good evening to you, Commander, my Lady..." She hesitated, biting her plush lower lip. "Your Worship."

Tony smiled, taking the tray from Flissa's hands and spinning it between her own palms. "Flissa, sweetheart, we talked about this."

"Oh--but," she said, dithering, "you can't mean that. You're--"

"Just Tony," she said. "Or, if you absolutely have to put a bow on it, Antonia. Why would I want a title to come between us?"

The barkeep's face remained red, but her expression took a turn for the exasperated. "You really are the worst sort of flirt, you know."

"And you're the best sort of woman," said Tony, not missing a beat. "The kind who serves drinks. Is it alright if we take some food to go?" She held up the tray. "And this?"

Flissa took back the tray, shaking her head. "We have baskets. I'll load one up."

Only when Flissa disappeared into the kitchen did Tony remember her company. She cleared her throat and looked at Josephine, considering her the safer option.

The Ambassador looked amused. "It is good to see you getting along so well with members of the community."

Tony grinned. "Most folks here make it easy." Her eyes betrayed her, and she glanced at Cullen. He seemed distracted, looking out into the crowd with a line between his eyebrows, ears pink along the shell.

Josephine followed Tony's eyes, but whatever she thought about that glance she kept out of her expression. "Does your title truly bother you so much?"

"Well, yeah," she said. Her hands were back in her pockets, picking at lint. "I mean, wouldn't it bother you? 'Herald of Andraste,' 'Her Worship'--like I went to seminary." Josephine tilted her head. "Ah, priest school, I mean. I don't worship the Maker, and I'm... you know. Me."

"You are you," agreed Josephine. "However, I do not see that as such a detriment."

Flissa returned with a basket covered by a thin towel. "Rolls and things," she said. "Not a full dinner, I'm afraid, but you can always come back for more."

"Wild horses couldn't drag me away," promised Tony. Flissa scoffed, but she was smiling.

The basket steamed a bit as they exited the Singing Maiden. The Commander wordlessly offered to carry it, but Tony shook her head. They made eye contact, and something in his expression gave her pause. Tony's hand squeezed the handle of the basket a bit harder, fingertips digging into her palm.

He blurted, "Aren't you going to ask if we believe you?"

Tony blinked at him, taken off guard. She looked over at Josephine, who seemed similarly surprised. "I mean... no? This wasn't--genuinely, I think food will help. Cassandra's temper is worse when she's hungry."

"I know," he said. He ran a gloved hand through his hair, eyes down on the snow. He seemed sheepish, but did not retract his question.

She stood there, basket in hand, and could not stop looking at Cullen. She asked, "Do you--? Wait," she said, just as he looked back up at her. "Just--you don't have to. We can all be coworkers without you believing me about this. I've been--I know I've been kind of--weird, but we're all working toward the same goal. That's all... that's all we have to agree on, right?"

Cullen seemed at a loss for words. Josephine looked between them again, and Tony wanted to summon a privacy curtain to throw between them. No one should have to see Tony be this awkward. Why couldn't everyone just be Flissa?

Josephine said, "Lady Antonia, I find myself agreeing with Cassandra in this matter. We have not been the united force that we could have."

"So, what does that mean?" Tony hurried a few steps up to the Chantry and held the door open for Cullen and Josephine. "You're going to believe me because that's what's best for the Inquisition?"

"Thank you." Josephine stepped through the door. Cullen looked to have a very quick crisis before doing the same. Josephine said, "I am going to keep an open mind. There is no denying all you have done for the Inquisition, and as your tutor, I am disinclined to believe you have pretended ignorance in so many things."

That was more than Tony'd been willing to hope for that morning. She smiled at Josephine, who smiled back.

When they returned to the back room of the Chantry, Tony held up her basket of goodies with the gravitas of Rafiki holding up Simba. "Man doth not live on bread alone, but it helps."

As usual, no one knew what she was talking about, but Cassandra at least looked grateful for the food. Leliana, far more hesitant, eventually accepted a fresh roll.

Tony took out a pot of spreadable cheese and began loading up her own. "Everything okay?"

"I apologize," said the Seeker. "It did not wish to make things so tense."

Tony raised her eyebrows. "Don't worry about me. I'm more concerned about you two."

All eyes turned to the Spymaster. She was picking at the bread in her hands, crumbs getting on the supple leather of her gloves. She always had her hood up, Tony realized then. Out of everyone in the room, she was the only one who wore anything that could slightly cover her face. Tony intentionally examined Leliana, ignoring the slight drip of dread into her blood as she did.

Tony didn't know how old Leliana was, but she looked too young to also appear so exhausted. When she spoke, her accent softened the consonants, but her tone gave every word weight. "It does not matter," she said, eyes dark and distant. Tony watched as Leliana zeroed in on her, scanning her with that blank expression she favored. "Lady Antonia, my work for the Inquisition requires me to know more about people than they know about themselves. Based on this information, I make decisions that change lives--or, when necessary, end them." 

Leliana reached out a hand to the map, resting a finger on the iron marker atop Denerim. The gesture made the marker look like the king on a chessboard, with Leliana poised to knock it over.

"I have a reputation," said Leliana. "One of near flawless accuracy. I pride myself on this." She retracted her hand from the marker, leaving Denerim with its king upright. "Yet I know absolutely nothing about you. I do not know your background, your motivations, whether or not your interests truly align with those of the Inquisition." Her smile was pure bitterness. "Do not concern yourself with whether or not I believe you to truly be from beyond the Fade. I am preoccupied with making sure you do not destroy everything I have accomplished for our cause."

Tony swallowed a hunk of bread, mouth dry. "You think I have that much power?"

"After your work in the field? Of course I do." She gestured to Josephine. "Every day, we receive reports about the rifts you've closed. The lives you saved. You are becoming the face of the Inquisition, and I--" She shook her head, annoyed with herself. "I do not know who you are."

It was irritating to Tony, as well. She'd never asked for any of this, but bringing that up felt childish. Instead, she said, "Maybe you could get to know me." Leliana looked up, clearly surprised. Tony shrugged. "I know I'm not in Haven much, but I could write you more letters."

Leliana scrutinized her. "Why?"

Tony stopped herself from rolling her eyes, but it was close. "Because you've built me up to be a huge problem, and I'm just trying to help."

"So you've said."

"I'm not asking to be your friend," said Tony. "Although, for the record, I have nothing against you personally. Beyond..." She waved a hand over her own throat, as if to cut it. "Your vocation. But that's just what life is like here." Leliana did not respond, and so Tony continued. "You don't think I should have all this influence. We have that in common."

The tension in the room was stifling. Leliana had fully retreated behind her hood, and so Tony looked around at the others. Josephine looked thoughtful, as did Cassandra. Cullen was staring at Tony again, and she could practically hear his wheels turning from where she stood.

"With respect, only Cassandra has seen me out in the field," said Tony. "I'd say I make completely stupid decisions..." She mentally ran the numbers and made a so-so gesture with one hand. "Comfortably, seventy-five percent of the time. None of you were at Lady Vivienne's salon, for example. She gave me this tiny bowl of warm water, smelled like lemon, and I--"

Josephine whimpered. "You didn't."

"--Drank it, absolutely I did, most delicious soap I've ever eaten." Leliana covered her mouth, either to hide a smile or a grimace. "I've been trying to learn everything at once, but guys, I'm not from here. I know it's hard to believe, but if you can all accept that much, we can prevent more shit like that from happening and bring more people onboard. Help me do what I can to seal the Breach. I know what's at stake."

Cullen had a smile that was so small it might as well have been a trick of the light. "You would trust our advice so implicitly?"

"To a point," she said. "I've got my own opinions about stuff." His tiny smile broadened. Tony fought against one of her own. "What?"

"I've said nothing," he said. "Though I must agree. You do have opinions."

"And in my opinion," she said, tearing her eyes away from him, "you guys are already using the Herald thing to your advantage. If me being from another world is inconvenient, just make up something else. Say--Josephine, was it Lord Gutierrez?" She blinked, then nodded. "Say I'm his cousin. Or say I'm from, I dunno, Wycome. Whatever will get the Inquisition to where it needs to be, I'll play along."

Cassandra frowned. "But you are a horrible liar."

Tony had to laugh. "Seeker, you said I was a horrible liar, and I only agreed with you because I thought you were going to kill me at the time."

Josephine looked pensive, examining the notes on her writing board. "If you are suggesting that we craft a more--convincing--background for you, I may have some thoughts."

Leliana had her hand at her chin. If she'd had a beard, she would be stroking it. "We would be best served by constructing multiple rumors," she said. "If we choose to be vague, we could gather support from multiple sources simultaneously."

Cassandra and Cullen seemed disturbed. Cassandra said, "You mean to spread stories, all of them lies? And if we are discovered?"

"Oh, we will be suspected of many things," said Leliana, tone amused. "But we shall not be discovered. The 'truth' is simply too ridiculous. People will believe we are covering up something mundane, yet important. There is potential there for many things."

The Commander shook his head. "Lady Antonia, are you truly... You do not mind?" Tony tilted her head in question. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. "When Cassandra began this meeting--when she said she believes you about your origins, you seemed..." He frowned at himself, seeming to give up on the thought as he was voicing it. "I wonder if it would be a burden, to have no one know the truth about you. Or believe the truth."

Tony ran a cloth napkin through her fingers. It was still warm from the bread. "You're making me want to ask you," she said.

Again, he hesitated. Again, he released a long, exhausted breath. "I do," he confessed, eyes on the map. "I believe you are from a different world, though I question my wisdom in doing so."

Tony smiled at him, happiness surging through her. He was right; it was a relief to be believed. "Thank you." He glanced up at her, then quickly looked away. His ears were pink again, she couldn't help but notice. "I appreciate it." She took a moment to think, pushing her wild hair out of her face as she did so. "I'd rather be useful than inconvenient, as far as the Inquisition is concerned. But--you know." She waved the napkin like a white flag. "Interpersonally, it's nice when people believe you about stuff. You aren't wrong."

Josephine and Leliana were both writing. After a moment, the Spymaster's eyes locked on the middle distance, focused on her thoughts. "I may have a useful contact," she said. "I have not spoken with him for some time, but my agents have recently learned of his whereabouts in Antiva. He owes me a favor or two, and would be willing to obscure some key details among the nobility there."

Tony tilted her head. "'Obscure?'"

Leliana smiled in a way that made Tony think of scythes and gravestones.

"Right. Well. If you can help it, try not to kill anybody?"

"Herald," she said. Tony noticed that response was neither a yes nor a no, but decided it was safest not to push.

The tension in the room hadn't entirely left, but given the many nearly impossible things the Inquisition had set out to accomplish, she doubted any of them could completely relax. Leliana looked less grim, and Cullen was eating. Tony was surprised by how much these things improved her own mood.

"I believe in you guys," she said. "Not that you make things easy on yourselves, but..."

Cassandra's eyes were warm as she smiled. "Thank you."

Tony grinned. "Here's one bit of cultural exchange I'd like to suggest. Can we always have snacks at meetings? Y'all are working yourselves to the bone, it's appalling."

Josephine nearly laughed. "Your Worship, may I ask--do you have any siblings?"

"Yes," she said. "And before you ask, yes, I was the oldest one. Still, though."

"I see." Josephine considered her notes, then looked at Tony, eyes assessing. "Cultural exchange... what an intriguing idea." Tony shot her a quizzical look, and she began to explain. "During our meetings, we focus exclusively on discussing the many layers of Thedosian history and politics. This work is important, of course, but I must admit a certain small regret that your homeland has been almost entirely absent from our conversations. I have long been curious about it. What details you have shared have been fascinating, Your Worship." She turned her smile to Cassandra. "You have been receiving recitals? How wonderful!"

Cassandra nodded, smile tugging at her lips. "It has been... enjoyable."

Tony saw where this was going, and immediately began to hedge Josephine's expectations. "'Enjoyable' is all you can hope for, Lady Josephine. As I've said, I'm not a fighter or a diplomat or anything useful."

"Everyone is useful," insisted Josephine. "As is everything, depending on the desired use. Would you mind answering questions about your homeland?"

Tony winced. "Sober?"

"Not necessarily," said Leliana.

Tony considered it. It had been more than a month since her arrival in Thedas, and in all that time she had pondered her home only a handful of times. She didn't know how she felt about it--she didn't know if she missed it--but maybe answering questions would be easier than navel-gazing alone. She nodded. "Yeah, alright."

Leliana and Cullen seemed to have their schedules memorized, but Tony, Josephine, and Cassandra referred to their own notes to settle on a good time. Before Tony could head out into the field again, they would have to decide on the best route for her to take, which would involve a lot of discussions and debates. Josephine took over the specifics of the meeting, urging everyone to consider it to be "a social occasion," which Tony took to meant "less stressful than this meeting was." They made plans to take over Josephine's office for dinner at the end of the week.

When Tony left the Chantry, she was thinking about what Cullen had said. About how it felt to be believed, even when she knew how bizarre her truth was. It took her walking back to her cabin to realize that there was only one person in town who had believed her without question. What's more, she'd rewarded him for his trust by avoiding him. No wonder she was feeling lonely; she'd been being a dick.

She doubled back and headed to the Singing Maiden.

Flissa smiled at her entrance. "More food, Your Worship?"

"Actually, could I get a bottle of wine? Red, for preference."

In moments, Tony was walking back through Haven and rubbing the dust off a green bottle with her sleeve. What was she going to say? All told, it had been easier for Solas to believe her due to his magic--he could see, and had seen, inside of her mind. If she had been lying, she imagined that the jig would have been up after that first shared dream. Still, she was alone and confused, and Solas had seen that. Maybe he'd been trying to help. Would it kill her to give him the benefit of the doubt?

She hoped not. She knocked on his door.

When he answered and saw that it was her, he made a face of muted surprise. "Herald of Andraste."

She twisted her mouth to the side in displeasure at the formality, but held out the bottle of red regardless. "Here."

Surprise growing, he accepted the bottle. When he glanced at the label, his surprise was tinged with pleasure. "To what do I owe such a gift?"

"An apology, maybe," she said. "I've been thinking a lot, lately, and--what you said, back in the bar in the Fade. You were right." She shrugged, hands in pockets, fighting against a surge of embarrassment. Unironic sincerity was difficult for her. "There is a lot I don't know. I wish I'd been more patient with you, back in the Hinterlands."

Solas considered her with cool interest. After a moment, his lips curled into a barely-there smile. It was the matter of half a degree, but it warmed his eyes considerably. "And I should not have entered without permission. My curiosity was guiding my decisions, not my wisdom."

Tony nodded, instantly relieved of some of her awkwardness. "Yeah. But--you know." She shrugged. "I wanted to make sure we were square." Tony cracked a smile. "Did I get your order right?"

"You did," he said, amusement growing. "I am surprised to see wine of quality in this part of the world." 

"I'm glad." She rocked back on one foot, wishing she'd written something down in preparation. She could improvise, but she didn't prefer it. "Listen, we've been--the high-ranking members of the Inquisition have been thinking about whether to approach the mages or the Templars in order to help seal the Breach. I've got some ideas, but... Val Royeaux got me thinking." She scratched her nose. "None of us are mages, and all of us are human. I feel like... I feel like I'm missing something, still. Can I ask for your perspective? Not tonight," she hastened to add. "I've been awake for too many hours today as it is, but."

His smile was the most genuine one she'd seen on him so far. "You may ask."

Tony smiled back. "Phew. Good. Okay." She nodded to him. "Have a good night, Solas."

"Lady Antonia," he said, nodding once.

Tony retreated to her cabin and considered falling onto the bed fully clothed. If she strained her ears, she could just barely make out the sound of the third--or fourth?--shift of soldiers training outside the gates. The Commander of the Inquisition was an insane person.

She dressed for bed, washed her face, and collapsed against the mattress with a groan. That night, she rested. She was far too tired to dream.

Chapter Text

Cullen said, "Draw."

Tony brought her right hand to the dagger on her left hip. She brought her fingers around the hilt, and--

"Hold." Tony froze, and Cullen pointed to her right hand. "Straighten your wrist." He squinted at her grip. "And hold it with more than your thumb and pointer. Firm--not that firm." She made the adjustments, and he nodded. "Right. Release it, hand to the side. Now draw."

Trying not to feel like an idiot--really? She couldn't even unsheathe it correctly?--Tony finally drew the dagger and held it in her hand. The blade was pointing up, so she used her free hand to switch her grip, holding it the way she'd seen horror movie villains hold it.

The Commander frowned. "Why did you do that?"

Tony blinked. "Uh." She made a stabbing motion. "For--like this?"

He released a breath, smiling but not quite laughing. "If that is how you mean to fight, your sheath is on the wrong side."

Tony changed her grip back. "Well. At least I've lowered expectations."

He did laugh, then.

It was an hour after sunrise, and Tony had met Cullen just outside Haven to begin her training. This window of time between him overseeing soldier drills and her meeting with Josephine had worked for them the past few days, even though Tony would have preferred the relative warmth of the afternoon. The past three mornings had focused on theory; today was the first day that Tony had actually been asked to hold a weapon.

They went over the parts of the dagger, and Cullen asked several questions about what felt most natural to her. Did she have any old injuries that gave her trouble? How far could she comfortably reach before feeling off-balance? If asked to retreat, which foot would she move first?

The questions didn't fill her with confidence. "Isn't there, like, a right way to do all this?"

He raised his eyebrows. "A 'right' way?"

"Yeah." She rolled her shoulders, trying yet again to relax. "Rules about what goes where, and which foot when, and stuff?"

"Ah." He looked relaxed, almost amused. Clearly, he was more comfortable talking about fighting than about anything remotely in Tony's wheelhouse. "Defensive fighting is not a sport, my Lady. Assuming your opponent is fighting from the same rulebook you learned from is fatal, more often than not." Tony pulled a face, which Cullen ignored. "If you were to stab me with that slashing grip, where would you aim?"

She frowned. "The chest?"

He rapped his knuckles against his chestplate. "Try again."

"The shoulder?"

He smiled. "Go ahead."

Tony boggled. "What, really?" He nodded, making no move to step back. Hesitant, Tony raised her dagger, the downward-facing blade pointing at Cullen. Only then did she realize her mistake. Face heating, she asked, "In this hypothetical situation, is there a box I could stand on?"

Cullen's smile grew into a grin, and Tony was forced to see how perfect his teeth were. "Hypothetically, no."

She hummed, then considered his armor. "The... legs?"

He took pity on her, showing her the easiest way to get an opponent to reveal their back. Since she had initially preferred the slasher-movie stabbing grip, he instructed her to keep her hands up with her forearm parallel to her body. Because she was shorter than most people, he specified the importance of keeping her feet apart, making sure she always had the balance to retreat if threatened. "Be aware of your opponent's reach, as well. If they fight with a sword, or with any pole weapon, your best option is to keep the distance between you as short as possible." He considered her less-than-thrilled expression. "What is it?"

She shifted from foot to foot. This open position reminded her too much of Ser Brandyn's easily-struck ribs from the first drills she'd observed. "That sounds... ugh." She grimaced. "Scary?"

Cullen didn't laugh at this. He didn't even smile; he put his hands on the pommel of his sword, and he considered her. "Which aspect of this frightens you? If I may ask."

"Are you joking?" She put the knife back in its sheath, looking down to make sure that she didn't accidentally get herself in the thigh. "It's a big knife. And you're training me to use my big knife to maybe stop people with even bigger knives from giving me a new belly button. What if I trip? What if I fumble the dagger? What if--"

"Hold."

Tony stopped, immediately silent. "Hold" was a safety thing, and she knew better than to ignore it.

Eyes kind, Cullen shook his head. "I'm going to tell you something that I was told, back when I was just beginning my training. It sounds like nonsense, but it's true, and I ask that you accept it without question."

She stared at him. Had she ever, in her life, accepted anything without question? She couldn't think of a single example. Still, the Commander seemed to be sincere. Reluctantly, she nodded.

"Good." He looked her in the eye and said, "If you enter combat with fear in your heart, the fear will be what kills you."

Tony inhaled, about to speak, then released the air in a sigh. He tilted his head at her, and she opened her mouth to ask him something. She remembered her vow from five seconds ago, and held her tongue. It was physically difficult for her not to curse.

There was a flicker of amusement in his expression. "I understand, believe me."

"I mean," blabbed Tony, "if you wanted to kill someone, a sword would help."

"As would a dagger, or a bow, or magic," he said. "But none are as lethal as fear." Tony knew she wasn't hiding her disbelief very well. He did not argue with her; instead, he moved on, saying, "You use a dagger, an extremely close-range weapon. In order to enter striking range, you must move with speed and confidence. Hesitation will not serve you. When you speak with others, you stand at the distance you are from me now. With a dagger," he said--

He stepped forward and was in her arms. Flustered, Tony barely kept her weapon in her hand. He'd moved with the speed of thought, the breadth of his body knocking her dagger aside. She jumped, reflexively trying to retreat, but he brought his left wrist behind her right one, hooking her arm in place.

"You need to be here," he said. It took a moment for Tony to understand that he was still talking. "It's not comfortable or polite, but it's safest." He considered her face. "Does this frighten you?"

She wasn't frightened, but she was--she was something. Agitated. Was her flush obvious? Was her quick intake of breath something she should apologize for? He smelled good--clean and woodsy--and she wished she hadn't learned that. He was her coworker. Her friend, sort of. Right now, he was her teacher, and she wasn't focusing on what she should be.

Warm, her brain said.

Instead of voicing any of this, she shook her head.

He seemed skeptical. Worse, he didn't yet step back. "If something scares you, we must deal with it now, in training. We practice so we do not encounter anything for the first time by surprise."

He doesn't want to kiss you, she reminded herself. He's just doing his job. Tony wrestled with her feelings before admitting, "I think--not that proximity is my main issue with all of this, but--is there a weapon I could use that has more... distance?"

"For close range, or in general?" Finally, mercifully, he retreated, but his eyes stayed on her. While her brain knew it was to assess her muscles or skeletal structure or something practical like that, the attention still made her feel buzzy. "You have the frame for archery, if that interests you, but for close-range combat I would recommend a longsword." Her doubt must have shown on her face, because his lips quirked up. "Not only due to my personal preference."

"That's not it," she said. "My arms are... I mean, you saw me with the grain in the Chantry. Aren't swords heavy?"

"Have you ever held one?"

She shook her head, assuming that practice swords didn't count. He drew his own and then offered it to her pommel-first. His gloved hands were calm and still on the sharp blade.

With almost exaggerated care, Tony took hold of the sword. It was solid steel, some kind of animal leather wrapped around the grip. It was warm--he was always holding the thing, so that made sense, but it was still slightly distracting. Her first impression was actually how light it was; for such a large weapon, she'd expected it to be at least twenty pounds, but this felt to be less than half that. After a few seconds, though, she realized that was indeed heavy. Tony could hold anything for a minute, but after fifteen of them, her shoulders would start to hurt. Was she supposed to be able to swing this thing around? Accurately?

"It's lighter than I expected," she admitted. "But I wouldn't call it light." 

He accepted his blade back from her with a thoughtful expression. "I would not have you wield this exact weapon. Perhaps a saber." She raised her eyebrows at him. He explained, "A blade with one edge along the side."

"I know what it is," she said, "I just, I thought that was a fencing--I mean, a dueling weapon. Cassandra said dueling was a waste of time."

He sighed. "Of course she did." 

Tony's surprise grew. "You don't agree?"

"Dueling, as a sport, is a waste of time," he said, his tone telling her that he'd made this argument many times before, "but the discipline itself has merit. It focuses on face-to-face combat, allowing you the range of a sword but the flexibility of a dagger. I have seen a duelist successfully riposte against a man with a maul larger than she was, multiple times." An odd look crossed over his face. "You... perhaps you already knew that."

Tony was officially lost. "Why would I have?"

"I do not know everything Varric included in his... Tale," he said, lip curling in poorly-hidden disgust, "but he must have mentioned Isabela." Tony shook her head, and Cullen looked very surprised. "Have you not read The Tale of the Champion?"

"Not yet. Why?"

Before he could answer, runner Irving came to summon Tony to her meeting with Josephine. "She's excited about something," confided Irving. He didn't seem to know whether that was good news or bad.

Tony thanked him, then returned her attention to Cullen. "Should we pick this up tomorrow, Commander?"

Looking almost troubled, he nodded. "Another time, then."

Tony made her way through Haven alone, trying to commit the content of her lesson to memory. She'd borrow some blank paper from Josephine for notes and include the relevant stuff. Maybe if she never wrote down how embarrassing she acted around Cullen, she'd eventually forget about it.

A handsome man was waiting by the Chantry entrance. When she passed, he said, "Excuse me. I've got a message for the Inquisition, but I'm having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me."

Tony nodded, grateful for the immediate distraction from her stupid brain. "I can take a message. What can I do for you?"

The man launched into a sales pitch. The free sample was information--there were Tevinter agents operating on the Storm Coast, a miserable-sounding place on the northern edge of Ferelden. He represented a group of mercenaries led by someone called Iron Bull, and Iron Bull was interested in talking to a representative of the Inquisition.

Tony didn't have a door to close on this person, so she was caught in the conversation. "You came all the way out here to advertise for the Chargers?"

He nodded. "We don't do that often. This is the first time in my employment that Bull's gone out of his way to pick a side."

"I'm flattered?" She tilted her head. "I guess? May I ask your name?"

The man's mouth twisted to the side. "Cremisius Aclassi."

That was the most obviously Tevene name she'd ever heard. Tony put her hands on her hips. "I see. Ser Aclassi, how did you discover the information about these agents from Tevinter?"

"You're sharp," he said. Clearly, he didn't intend it to be a compliment. "It's not like that. Iron Bull's one of those Qunari--the big guys with horns? I'm no friend of the Vints. 'S why I'm telling you where there's a group of them to kill." Tony took a moment to consider this, and Ser Aclassi took the opportunity to say, "Bull thinks you're doing good work. This is a professional solicitation, my Lady, nothing more."

Tony nodded. "I'll pass it along. Thank you for coming all this way." She looked over to the tavern, and did some mental math regarding beds. "Do you need somewhere to stay the night? It gets dark early, around here."

Ser Aclassi looked at her as though she'd just grown an extra head. "Uh, no. I'll be fine." He gave her a closer look. "Thank you. Are you...?"

"My name's Tony," she said, giving him a small bob of a bow. "Pleasure speaking with you. Unfortunately, I've got to run. Safe travels, Ser Aclassi."

Tony beelined for Josephine. The Ambassador was right where she was meant to be, behind her desk and swimming in papers. Her quill raced across parchment, even as she looked up to greet Tony with a professional smile. "Good morning, my Lady."

Tony said, "There's a man from Tevinter in the camp."

Josephine knocked over her bottle of ink. The two of them sprung into action, and Minaeve left to fetch dry rags. "What? Who? When?"

"Just now," said Tony. "Cremisius Aclassi. Do you recognize the name?"

"No, I don't--just put the bottle over there, my Lady--I've never even heard of the Aclassi family." She wiped her blackened hands against her ink blotting paper to middling effect. "What did he want?" Tony explained as best she could. At the mention of the Chargers, Josephine's eyes lit with recognition. "I have heard of them. They are a respected group, ordinarily working out of Orlais and Nevarra. And they sent a representative here? A Tevinter representative? Why?"

"He said that his employer, Iron Bull, respects what we're doing out here, and that his interest should be considered a compliment." Tony wiggled a hand. "Not in those words, but, you know."

"I do indeed." Minaeve returned with some rags, and the three of them set to work saving Josephine's desk from the worst of the damage. "I will discuss this with Leliana. If she believes it to be safe, I encourage you to meet with them. Their reputation is one of utmost professionalism, and we could always use more skilled swords."

Tony nodded, though felt trepidatious. "Let's do a bit more research on that name before I head out." She let herself smile. "I might miss the coast, actually. It'd be nice to see the sea."

Josephine smiled. "I understand all too well." She pulled out a stack of letters, tied in red string to show them as outgoing missives, but not yet sealed shut. Ink had splattered over the paper, giving them all black freckles. "After our meeting a few nights ago, I have been considering the more useful backgrounds for you. Would you care to read them?"

Tony took her up on the offer, loosening the knot on the first letter she touched. According to this, Tony was a member of minor nobility from the Free Marches. She opened another; here, she was apparently the daughter of a now-deceased high ranking member of the Chantry. All of the letters were addressed to people that somewhat matched the story; nobles were told she was noble, the faithful were told she was faithful. The most intriguing letter, and the only one that gave her pause, had her name as "Antonia Gonzalez Montilyet."

Tony blinked at the paper, then looked up at the Ambassador. "This isn't you proposing to me, is it?"

Josephine brought her ink-stained hands to her face, scandalized. "Oh--no, Your Worship, not at all!"

It was such an innocent reaction that Tony couldn't help pushing it a little. "Because you're a beautiful woman, and anyone would be lucky to have you, but still." She gestured with the letter in her hand. "No flowers? No candy?"

"I would not--I would never presume to--" She pulled her hands away, leaving marks on her flushed face. "Are you--you're teasing me, aren't you?"

Tony waggled her eyebrows. "And if I'm not?"

"You are definitely teasing me," she groused. Belatedly, she noticed her stained hands, and sighed. "And now, I have to wash my face."

"It's perfect as-is," insisted Tony. "The ink adds character."

Later, when Josephine was both cleaner and less annoyed, she explained that linking their names would be advantageous to them both. "Cousins," she said. "I am more than familiar with my own lineage, and would be honored to use this knowledge to craft you a personal history."

Tony nodded. "Makes sense. It's easier to lie when you're an authority on one of the subjects involved."

"Should I need to introduce specifics, I will of course ask for your input. I do not mean to fabricate things without your knowledge."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Those letters looked pretty ready to go, though."

"But not sealed," assured Josephine. "I had always intended to have you read them first."

Once again, all Tony had to go on was her gut. Trust was so difficult, especially when it came to the high-ranking members of the Inquisition. Josephine made a living off of convenient lies and flattery, and taking her at her word wasn't easy. Still, Tony was the stranger in town. She would have to suspend her disbelief, at least a little, if she could hope to expect the same in return.

"Sounds good," she said. "Plus, if I stay single, I can keep shooting my shot with Varric."

Josephine looked at her with open surprise. "Varric?"

Tony grinned and held out a hand. "Gorgeous, witty, about this tall?"

"I am aware of who he is," she said, "I am simply... surprised."

Tony tilted her head. "Is there another blond bombshell walking around Haven I should know about?"

She was fishing, of course. If Varric were a bombshell, Cullen was a nuclear missile. That was the problem.

She couldn't ignore how he looked--she wished she could, but every time they met in the War Room or by chance in Haven, she found some new reason to admire him. Now that he was training her, the problem had grown exponentially. Had this been a normal job--had this been any other job, really--she would be able to bottle it up and throw it into the proverbial sea, but it wasn't. There was no distancing herself from him, and there was no pretending he wasn't an awkward, socially stilted Adonis. Tony remembered asking him about his "pest problem," and how miserable he'd seemed. If she was also pestering him, making him uncomfortable, she needed to know. She considered herself fairly unflappable, socially speaking, yet she could barely think about how sparring with daggers had brought them so close together. It was this fucking place, with its gloves and knights and Victorian sensibilities, that kept her from asking him directly how he felt.

If anyone knew what Cullen thought of her, it was Josephine. If anyone knew what Tony thought of Cullen, it was also Josephine. And Leliana, but Josephine was less likely to... well, she was less terrifying.

"I could not say," hedged Josephine. "What is a 'bombshell'?" 

Tony examined Josephine's face, searching beyond the surface-level confusion. "A weapon," she said, "but I'm using it idiomatically."

"Is that so?" Josephine considered Tony in return. She was the first to break eye contact, glancing at her notes. "Your language can be so colorful, my Lady--it is a pleasure to speak so casually with you."

What did that mean? She had to assume that, if Tony were being super pushy with Cullen, Josephine would use this opportunity to let her down gently. So maybe she wasn't being pushy. Maybe she was up in her head about nothing. It would hardly be the first time.

A bolder person would press the issue, but Tony was not that person. She leaned back in her seat and released a breath. "Maybe he'll name his quiver after me," she said, smiling wistfully. "Antonia and Bianca. Is she a real person, do you think?"

After the meeting, Tony made a point to seek Varric out. He'd made it clear that he had no interest in the administrative, managerial, or other paperwork-heavy aspects of the Inquisition, and as a consequence Tony didn't see him all that often. She envied that he had the choice, but couldn't hold it against him.

As usual, Varric was chatting around the campfire near Haven's gates, entertaining off-duty soldiers and runners with almost certainly exaggerated stories. Most of the stories centered on the Champion of Kirkwall, a death-defying, snarky mage that seemed more fiction than fact. Tony was reasonably sure that the Champion existed, but was equally sure that she hadn't done half of what Varric claimed she had.

Still, he was a gifted storyteller. His hands, broad-palmed and dexterous, danced in the air as he spoke, and his gravelly voice was warm and good-humored. Tony pulled up a seat on a log, not wanting to interrupt--although after a moment, she realized that she'd heard this story before. She looked around, taking stock of the audience.

Sure enough, they were almost all newcomers. The soldiers were outfitted in the overly-intricate plate armor that Tony associated with Orlesian guards, and one of them sported muttonchops so manicured that they were basically a facial topiary. The runners were more varied, including elves as well as humans among their ranks. Tony didn't know whether to be glad for the diversity or ashamed by the lack of it. Where were the other dwarves? For that matter, where were the Qunari? If they ended up hiring the Chargers, that would bring the Qunari Inquisition members up to a less-than-inspiring one.

Once Varric's story reached its incredibly unlikely conclusion--"Looks like the Duke has fallen from grace," come on--Tony approached him. "Hungry?"

He smiled up at her. "Starving. You free for lunch?"

"I could move some things around in my calendar." It was meant to be a joke, but Varric didn't laugh. Belatedly, Tony realized that she did have a bit of a schedule. Kind of a rigid one, actually. When had that happened? "Tavern, or tavern?"

"Tavern," he said. "Let's mix it up a little."

-

The day of Josephine's dinner party, Tony did her best to rest. She read in her cabin until her eyes began to cross, then ventured out to people watch. At lunch, she observed the drilling soldiers as she ate. To her, it still looked like a sport with no rules, and picking out patterns took time. She didn't want to be entirely ignorant about what she was helping the Inquisition make people do.

She saw Rylen again, who was a bit chilly at first. Tony had no idea how Cullen had broken the news to him about her being the Herald, but it apparently hadn't been well received. By way of apology, she told him the "drinking the soap" story from Vivienne's chateau. It got him to crack a smile, at least.

After lunch, she made the rounds in Haven, making sure everything was going as smooth as it could be. Threnn was dealing with a weirdly cabbage-heavy food order, Adan needed embrium for lyrium potions, and Flissa's tavern was understaffed. It was easy enough to pass the time helping until the evening.

It was only when she entered the Chantry and made her way to Josephine's office that she realized she'd forgotten to actually rest --as in, "put your feet up and do nothing" rest. Her endurance had dramatically improved between the horseback riding and the sparring, but she was only human and still got tired. Hopefully this party would go as intended and be less serious than the meetings around the map.

Josephine's office was large and mostly empty, though this evening she'd found chairs to place around her enormous desk. Atop the desk, instead of the customary stacks of correspondence and paperwork, was a modest spread styled to look expensive: mixed pickled vegetables, salted almonds, hard and soft cheeses, crisp crackers, smoked fish pâté, a pot of spiced honey, a free-standing mold of herb jelly, wafer-thin sliced meat, and fried triangular biscuits called farls. It was a charcuterie plate full of things Tony barely recognized. She began to suspect that Josephine could throw a successful high tea on a desert island, and she told Josephine as much.

"Oh, come now, my Lady," she said, pouring a generous glassful of red wine for Tony. "It is a pleasure to design a menu, even under our current constraints."

It had been months since Tony had enjoyed a drink served in a stemmed glass, and she savored the feeling of civilization. There were so many things she had never thought to miss. "That's not a skill I have."

"Planning events?"

"Enjoying planning events." She sat to Josephine's right, snagging a slice of aged cheese before leaning back. "I'll do it--I've done it--but I'm always too stressed to enjoy the thing once it's happening."

Josephine settled next to Tony, her own glass in front of her on the desk. "The pressure to deliver excellence when good is nigh impossible--this is what thrills me, Lady Antonia. It is why I so enjoyed my time in Val Royeaux; it is why I accepted my post here with the Inquisition. Once, you called me ambitious." She shrugged one shoulder, somehow making the gesture elegant. "Perhaps. I have always considered it to be a certain... disinclination toward boredom, myself."

Tony grinned. "So, what, you're a social adrenaline junkie? Or... how should I say this..." She gestured with her cheese slice. "The risk of failure is what keeps it interesting."

"Well said." Josephine loaded up a small plate with a farl and a dollop of jelly. "You must try this. The mint is from the forests of Bayard. It has almost a heat to it."

Cassandra arrived, then Leliana. They were accepting wine from Josephine when Cullen entered, looking rushed and exhausted. Tony raised her eyebrows at his approach and nudged the seat next to her with her boot in invitation. He looked at it, at her, and at the offerings on the desk before finally sitting beside her.

Tony asked, "Long day?"

He released a breath, shoulders minutely slumping. "It is nothing, my Lady."

"Not what I asked." She nodded to the food. "Dinner?"

"In a moment," he said. Though his body was physically in the room, his mind was clearly miles away. Tony left him alone, figuring that he hadn't really arrived yet. She turned her attention back to Cassandra, who was in the middle of a list of complaints.

"They put Most Holy's face on plates," she was saying, oozing disgust from every pore. "As decorations! Sera told me they sell them in Val Royeaux. I cannot imagine who would think to profit off the likeness of the Divine. Certainly no one faithful."

"Huh." Cassandra looked at Tony, who only then realized she'd spoken aloud. "Oh, just--is it strange to have a figure or picture of the Divine hanging around the house?"

The Seeker huffed. "It is sacrilegious. Not the image itself, perhaps, but to make a profit from it? I cannot abide such disrespect."

Tony huffed back. "Well. Let me add that to the list of ways the Chantry is totally unlike Catholicism back home. The only thing they seem to share is Inquisitions."

Josephine looked intrigued. "There is such a thing, back in California?"

"Was," said Tony. She didn't know any more about it since the last time she'd mentioned it, but only Cassandra and Leliana had been at that meeting. "And not specifically in California. Hundreds of years ago, a bunch of Catholics decided that not enough people were Catholics, and they set out to fix that with a bunch of violence. There were no," she said, twinkling her fingers at Cassandra, "Seekers of Truth in the Spanish Inquisition. It was just a bunch of religious nutjobs vying for power."

The vibe in the room had cooled a few degrees. There were no windows in Josephine's office, and the candlelight cast everything in severe shadows. Tony realized too late that she'd inadvertently insulted everyone in the room.

Tony sucked a bit of bread from between her teeth. "It's not worth the comparison, really. I haven't seen much of that here."

"But," said Leliana, "you have seen some."

Tony regretted even bringing it up. "I haven't seen torture. I haven't seen, like, creative uses for red-hot pokers. As far as what the Inquisition has done for Ferelden and Orlais so far, things are far, far away from the bullshit the Catholics pulled."

"Catholics," said Cassandra, testing the word. "You do not care for them, it seems."

"Of course not," said Tony. "I was raised Catholic. Shit's awful."

Cassandra was gobsmacked. "You are? You have such disdain for your own beliefs?"

"They started it," said Tony. "Look, can we talk about something else? I'm sure you guys have questions that aren't about my upbringing. I'd love one of those."

It was a clunky request for a topic change, but Leliana readily accepted it. "I do have questions, though I hardly know where to begin." Her hood was still up. In the candlelight, she might as well have been wearing a mask. "You are from California. Is this the name of a city?"

"A state," said Tony. "One of fifty that make up the United States of America. It's one of the largest, and I'm from close to one of the largest cities. San Francisco." Josephine tilted her head, listening beyond the words. Tony said, "Yeah. More Catholic shit. All you need to know about the City is that it's one of, if not the most expensive places to live in my entire country. You need money for everything, from drinking water to taking a--to using the--latrine?" She frowned. "Privy? I have no idea what it's called, and when I swear in the Chantry everyone glares at me."

"'Privy' will suffice," said Cassandra.

Josephine asked, "Is it similar to Val Royeaux?"

Tony squinted up at the ceiling, trying to envision what that would even look like. "No. Val Royeaux feels much, much older than the City, and looks a lot fancier, too. SF tries to be more... streamlined? Basic." She chewed on her bottom lip, thinking. "Cassandra, do you remember what I was like, in Val Royeaux?" Cassandra nodded. "The buildings in San Francisco are just-- astronomically expensive, compared to the ones in Val Royeaux, but the appearance is totally different. Where I'm from, things aren't so... hmm. Externally ostentatious."

To Tony's right, someone scoffed. Tony turned, blushing even before she saw Cullen's face.

He had arrived. Smiling, he said, "'Externally ostentatious'?"

"It's accurate," she said, immediately defensive.

"It's specific," he countered. "Only you could know if it's accurate."

Tony flustered. "It's just how I talk. I don't know how else to say it."

It seemed that Cullen had been knocked free of his stressed-out reverie. Kind of you to join us, Tony thought but didn't say. She wondered what had him so wound up, but knew that he wouldn't appreciate the question. More accurately, he wouldn't appreciate her asking the question. She'd fuck it up somehow and make him uncomfortable.

So, she pushed on with the topic at hand. "Aesthetics aside, rich people are rich people, no matter where you are. I tended to keep to the less wealthy areas so I didn't have to see too many of them."

The conversation wandered. What were Californian politics like? Were there enemy states or nations? What did her family do for a living? Tony did her best to explain: complicated, yes, and probably still real estate. She'd often considered how she would explain Earth to an alien as a thought exercise, but in her hypothetical she'd assumed she would have pictures and videos to assist her.

Eventually, there was a lull in the conversation. Tony looked at Cullen and saw that he had withdrawn again. She sighed. "What is it?" He looked up, caught. "Something's wrong."

He looked at her, then examined the other women in the room. He didn't seem to enjoy being the center of attention, but he took it on as his grim duty. "Lady Vivienne has completed her examination of what we found beneath the Breach," he said.

Tony did not know what this meant, but Leliana did. It was subtle--her fingers tightening on her wine glass, her eyes narrowing at Cullen--but it was unmistakable.

Cullen turned to Leliana, face all resolve. "Cassandra's right," he said. "We cannot continue as we have been. If the leaders of the Inquisition are divided, we will be unable to reach our goals."

Leliana said, "You have made this decision on my behalf, Commander." She sounded coldly furious.

"I respect your position," said Cullen, voice uncomfortably sincere. "I understand what the Game entails, and why you must play it. But we cannot play it here. I have seen firsthand what happens when paranoia runs through Orders unchecked." He looked to Tony, the redness in his eyes pronounced at this late hour. "Lady Antonia, our soldiers have returned from clearing the dead from the Temple. Beneath the Breach, they found this."

In his hand was an oiled cloth. He unwrapped it, letting the material fall open to reveal a plastic shard. It was unnaturally white and glossy, save for the bright rainbow swirl logo. Tony stared at it and reached out to touch it, momentarily outside of herself.

"A mortal falling through the Fade is bad enough," he said. "But things falling through physically is... worse."

Tony dropped her hand and put down her wine. She laced her fingers together, and stared at the shard of Jamba Juice cup. "So, I know why I'm freaking out," she said, voice light and brittle. "But why are you freaking out?"

"Did you bring this through with you? In a pocket, perhaps?" Tony shook her head. Cullen did not look surprised, though he did look grim. "I'd thought not. When you fell from the Breach, we checked you for weapons and found none. We found nothing, other than your odd--forgive me, your clothes." He was having enough trouble saying this without editorializing, it seemed. "Should the Breach still be an open doorway to your world, what can we expect to come out of it?"

Tony fought against a wave of nausea. "I don't know. I--this thing, this is just trash." Plastic trash. Trash that would take a zillion years to break down and had no benefit to it at all. Her stomach churned, her mind racing through a slideshow of worst-case scenarios. "There could be more trash? We certainly have enough of it."

"Weapons?" Cullen pressed. "Demons?"

"No demons, but plenty of assholes," said Tony. "And... weapons." She brought a hand to her sternum, remembering the bright shock of pain that was her last Californian memory. "We do have those."

He wrapped up the plastic and put the small parcel on the table, next to his untouched glass of wine. "Perhaps it's nothing," he said, barely putting any effort into making himself sound optimistic. "But the Breach and the rifts are connected to each other, as well as to the Fade. If more things from your world come through..." He shook his head, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Maker. It wouldn't even be a Blight, it would be..."

Tony had read about Blights. She'd learned about how, every once in a while, darkspawn surged up from beneath the surface of the earth to kidnap or murder every living being in Thedas. How they would indiscriminately murder and rape people, and how they seemed to be motivated entirely by cruelty. The Chant said that these darkspawn were humanity's fault for daring to enter Heaven; how the result of the Andrastian Tower of Babel wasn't the creation of a thousand languages, but of a plague of demons that could never be eradicated. If the Breach let her people through--if it let "her people" through--could she trust things to be handled more empathetically?

"It'd be bad," she finished for him. She had no reason to believe otherwise. "Has anyone found anything else that's weird?"

"There have been a few strange things, but Minaeve and Vivienne assure us that they are demonic, not otherworldly."

"Well, that's something, at least." Tony's hand was shaking when she reached for her wine. Trying for levity, she said, "I hadn't thought to be grateful I made it through the Fade with clothes on. Landing naked on that mountain would've been rough."

Cullen made a manic sound that spoke of exhaustion. "Yes. Well."

Tony looked to Leliana, who was sitting so still that she may not have been breathing. "And you were gonna keep this from me."

Leliana considered her wine, then took a sip. She savored it, rolling it along her tongue before taking a swallow. It seemed to help her center herself. When she met Tony's eyes again, they were clear and bright. "I was, and I do not regret my decision."

"Why? Or..." Tony frowned, heart sinking slowly into her unsettled stomach. "Oh." Because Leliana didn't trust her.

Tony had been to maybe one other dinner party that was as awkward as this one. She considered the room, trying to figure out the best way to proceed.

Leliana explained, though she no longer needed to. "Lady Antonia, you are a young, educated, beautiful woman with no history or connections. You are almost too quick to speak ill of your homeland, as if you wish us to believe you have no possible allegiance to it. You are eloquent, yet claim you cannot read. It is impossible for me to look at you and see anything but a clumsy spy. Perhaps the first of many."

Tony's mind spun. Apparently, Leliana sincerely believed that Tony was from another world. Unfortunately, she also believed that Tony's world meant to conquer Thedas, or something equally horrifying. When framed that way, it made Tony look unbelievably suspicious. She wondered why Leliana hadn't ordered her to be arrested again on principle. "Thanks? I'm in my thirties."

Leliana had opened her mouth to reply, but ended up simply scoffing in surprise. "After everything that I've said, that is your first response?"

"What am I supposed to say?" Tony sipped her wine. She could no longer taste it, but the warmth was welcome. "Just--goddamn it, Leliana. You have made a career out of being suspicious of people. I feel a little cornered, vis-à-vis our tête-à-tête."

Josephine balked. "Was that Orlesian?"

"French, and she brings it out in me," said Tony, crossing her legs at the ankle. "Leliana, be honest, because I gotta know: is there something I can say that will get you to believe I'm not here to fuck up the Inquisition? Because I'm too dumb to know what it is."

Leliana looked similarly frustrated, in her own discreet way. "Not if you ask, my Lady."

Tony felt driven to refill her own glass. Josephine sighed, elbow on the table and forehead against her palm. Cassandra was fuming.

Cullen was smiling, still. His face twitched as though he were trying to fight it, but the smile persisted. Tony glared at him until she caught his eye.

"Forgive me," he said, shaking his head. Tony kept staring, and he shrugged, snagging a pickled carrot from the spread. "When you're angry, you sound... different."

Tony squinted at him. "I guess? Maybe?" Her squint became a frown. "What does that mean?"

"May I ask a question, Lady Antonia?" He let his grin widen. "Who, or what, is Fabio?"

The question felt like a tug on her ponytail. She was shocked, then deeply embarrassed. "Oh, God. I forgot I said that." What was the best way to phrase it? "He's very handsome. And, if you don't ask any more questions, the comparison can stay polite."

Cullen turned to aim his smile at Leliana. "I realize I do not share your expertise."

Leliana sighed. "But."

"But for all of the things you've listed as reasons for suspicion, Lady Antonia is no fighter. Her actions have not threatened the Inquisition--quite the opposite."

"You could always kill me later," offered Tony. "'Snot like I could stop you."

"Yes," agreed Cullen. Then, apparently belatedly understanding her, he said, "Well--no. Maybe. That, ah. That was not my point."

"She could, though."

Cullen looked at her as though she were a particularly exhausting child. "I suppose?"

"All of you could," pressed Tony. "This food could be poisoned. This wine could be cursed. Maybe there's an assassin in that cabinet over there just waiting for me to let my guard down." She gestured expansively. "I've chosen not to worry about any of that stuff, because if I let myself worry about it, I wouldn't be able to get out of bed in the morning. I'm here, and I'm trying to be friendly, even though each and every one of you is balls-shrivelingly intimidating."

Josephine raised a delicate hand to her collarbone. "Even me?"

Tony snorted, lifting her wine to her lips. "Yes, even you. Especially you, sometimes. Only murderers eat sweet rolls the way you do." She took a sip, then placed the glass back on the desk. Even with her bartender's constitution, she was drinking too fast. "I barely clear five feet. There is furniture that I find intimidating, so maybe this isn't saying much, but you're all very powerful. Do I need to tell you that?"

Josephine looked around the table. Cassandra and Cullen seemed to be having a silent conversation, frowning at each other from across the desk. Leliana held out her hand for the bottle of wine, and Tony stood in order to reach her with it. The Spymaster clearly gestured for the bottle, but Tony held out her hand for the glass. There was a stalemate for all of a second before Leliana sighed and held up her wine glass. Tony topped her up.

"We are aware of our abilities," said Leliana.

Tony smiled, turning up the bottle and catching a drop on the neck of it with her finger. "I'd hope so."

"If I may," said Josephine. Tony sat once more, placing the bottle near Cullen's place setting. He wasn't drinking at all, but there was plenty of wine. Josephine continued, "It seems that we have reached an impasse, regarding Lady Antonia's motivations." More specifically, the veracity of her story, but Josephine was far too polite to say it like that. "However, I still find myself curious about her home. Perhaps that would be a more fruitful avenue for discussion?"

Tony thought as she chewed on a farl. She thought about all the worries she'd listed in her journal. About all the people she had met and convinced that Haven was safe. That the Inquisition was worth their time. How, according to Leliana, she was becoming the "face" of the Inquisition, and yet when she'd first arrived they'd thrown her in the dungeon.

She thought about rifts. About demons, and dying. The brutal, instant severing of life that came from a Terror demon appearing underfoot, knocking someone over, then slashing them into ribbons.

"You can ask, and I'll tell you," she said, "but the important thing is sealing the Breach."

Wide eyes around the table. Leliana, in particular, was focused.

Tony sighed and began to speak with her hands. "There's a fucking hole in the sky," she said. "There's several, actually--there's the big one, and there are little ones all over the place. Are they multiplying? Did all the rifts open at the same time? When the Veil is thin somewhere, is that a guarantee that a rift will eventually open there, or is that speculation? What made the holes in the first place? Why are demons coming through when none of them survive for long? Why does magic work on demons when both magic and demons are from the Fade? Shouldn't demons have some sort of immunity to magic? What is lyrium, if it's mined from underground and not pulled from the Fade? What is lyrium at all, and why does the description in books start and end at 'a magical mineral'? Why in the whole fuck do people drink it without knowing what it is?" She pushed her hair back out of her face. "I mean, is it me? Am I the asshole?"

Josephine's eyebrows were all the way up, but she did seem to be following the monologue. "And this leads you to believe...?"

She took a breath, then began to pick at her cuticles. "Guys, what if--you mentioned, all of you mentioned trying to figure out how to maybe get me home. How the Breach might be a path back to California." She gestured to the cloth package on the desk. "How it's letting stuff through this way, so maybe I could go back up. But, you guys." The air was thinning around her. "What if trying to send me back opens a Breach back home? We don't have mages or Templars. What if every time I close a rift, I'm opening one up on the other side of the Fade? Is that what the Fade is? The space between realities? A semipermeable membrane that I punched a protein channel through?" She leaned an elbow on the desk and began to drum the fingers of her left hand against it. "If I truly was brought here by Andraste, who or what is Andraste? Human, still? Is humanity defined by mortality? Because if so--"

"Antonia," said Cassandra. Not a warning, but a concern.

"What if I'm the reason the world is ending?"

"You are not," said Cassandra, certain.

"How?" Tony demanded. "How do you know? Did the Breach exist before I arrived? Didn't I cause it? Did I kill the Divine?" She felt herself tearing up. "I don't know. I still don't know. I feel like everyone stopped asking that question, but I don't understand why. What if I did it by accident?"

Josephine looked stunned. "You had such concerns, and you did not bring them to me?"

"How could you have helped?" Tony's eyes stung. "You don't know. No one does. All I know is that everyone is mourning an apparently incredible woman and I might have killed her." She swallowed, bringing a hand to cover her eyes. "Fuck. This is why--this is part of why I thought maybe you should--"

"We are not going to kill you." This was Cullen. He sounded soft and resolute.

Tony had to laugh. It was wet, and it ended in a snort, but it was genuine. She dropped her hand from her face and looked at the Commander, eyes now no doubt as red as his. "I'm not the Herald of Andraste," she said. "So I could be anything. I came through the Fade. Isn't that incredibly bad news?"

He looked at her. It didn't feel like staring, but the weight of it was the same. His presence was heavy, his focus moreso. He said, "Perhaps this is ill-considered, but I do not think a demon would weep for us."

She laughed again. He was so honest all the time; no wonder he had no patience for things like the Game. She wiped her face, then wiped her hands on her napkin. "I shouldn't be here," she muttered thickly. "I'm sorry. I haven't really--I haven't dealt with it. I'm sorry I'm such a mess."

Tony gathered her courage and looked around the room. Josephine's eyes were wide and glittering, sympathetic tears threatening to burst forth. Cassandra, too, seemed troubled. Cullen looked serious, but he always looked serious.

Leliana was crying. Her face was tilted toward the candle holder on the desk. All shadows that her hood could have cast were wiped away. Her mouth was twisted down, lips pressed together in an attempt to keep them from wobbling. Tracks of her tears shone against her cheeks and fell, not a single one brushed away.

Their eyes met, and Tony felt it with the force of a bolt of lightning. Leliana was not mourning a colleague. Or, not just that.

"Oh," sighed the Spymaster. She brought her lilac gloves to her face, seeming surprised to find tears. "Forgive me. I had not--I hadn't expected that."

Tony remained silent. There was no breeze, as there were no windows; there was no ambient sound at all. It seemed that everyone but Leliana was holding their breath.

Leliana folded her hands in her lap and looked off to the side, eyes distant. "You never met her," she said. "She... she was exceptional in every way. I did not know that you had thought to mourn her loss."

Tony's own tears threatened to start again. Throat tight, she said, "Of course I have. I do. The Divine, she was trying to end the war, wasn't she?"

"Yes." Leliana released a breath, almost in a laugh. "It's strange. The Inquisition exists because of her, yet she is not here to help us lead it." Her face, only barely brought back into check, faltered again. "I had not prepared for this."

Tony didn't know whether Leliana was referring to her tears or the Divine's absence. She breathed, counting her inhale and exhale on eight heartbeats. With a bit of effort, she reined in her self-pity. If anyone in this room deserved some catharsis, it was this heartbroken woman in front of her. "I am so, so sorry, Leliana."

Cassandra had her hand on Leliana's shoulder. After a moment, she said, "We have not had time to mourn." The Seeker nodded to Tony. "Neither have you."

She did not have to think long before she answered. "I died," she reminded them. "I remember what it felt like, and I remember waking up here. I shouldn't... it shouldn't have happened like this. There's no way I could return to California without... risk, I guess. Significant risk."

Cullen asked, "And if there were no risk?"

Tony looked at him, surprised. If he were ever to be painted or sculpted, it would have to be with an expression like this: focused, gentle, kind. She wondered when she would stop noticing the way he looked. It would help if he stopped looking at her like that.

"You have fears of what might happen," he said. "As do we all, I suspect. But you have no more evidence than we do. If it were safe, and you did not risk your homeland in the attempt, would you wish to return?"

It was impossible for her to answer. She had not mourned its loss; she had shied away from thinking about it this entire time. Sharing the culture of her world--the poetry, the stories--that was fine. Easy, almost. It was how she had always been: a walking source of famous quotations. If she were in her apartment right now, what would she want to do?

Shower. Rest. Eat a burrito the size of a human infant. How could she measure that against the fate of two realities?

"Does it matter?" Tony asked.

He nodded. "Of course." She continued to look baffled, and his eyes grew sad. "What you wish matters, my Lady."

She sighed. She wanted to cover her face, or his face. There were too many faces in the room, suddenly. He was going to make her cry again, which she did not appreciate. He seemed to sense her distress, because his expression began to grow worried.

"I don't know," she confessed. "I wish I did, but I don't. In the meantime..." She swallowed her feelings and managed a falsely chipper smile. "Let's keep the world from ending, okay? First things first."

He sighed, as well, though she didn't understand why. Seeming somehow frustrated, he leaned back in his seat once more. She had no idea what to tell him. If he wanted a clearer answer than that, he would have to wait for her to come up with one.

The momentum of the meeting was lost by then. Cullen was the first to excuse himself, speaking of the endless stack of paperwork waiting for him. Cassandra loaded up a plate with food before leaving to do the same. When it was just Josephine and Leliana, Tony could more easily see their similarities. The precise way they held their glasses, for example, as if they'd gone to the same finishing school.

Leliana was perfectly composed again, face serene as she nibbled on cheese. Tony was mid-bite when she said, "You ask for very little, you know."

Tony shrugged. "What should I be asking for?"

"Better appointments," Leliana said immediately. "Better food, perhaps something more familiar to you. Clothes that are less..." She nearly grimaced. "Hodgepodge."

"I tried, Leliana," groaned Josephine. "She chose these."

The idea that Spymaster Leliana would lose her composure over fashion was enough to make Tony grin. "You let Cullen wear that coat," she countered.

Leliana scoffed. "I do not 'let' him. He is the Commander of our army; he can dress as horrifically as he likes."

Josephine made an unconvinced face, but took a sip of wine rather than say anything. Perhaps they had argued about this before.

Tony was curious. "What should I be wearing?"

"Ah." Leliana brought her hand to her chin, considering Tony's appearance. "In Haven? Leggings, a smock, a surcoat. Boots for riding as well as walking. A caul, a scarf, something for--" She gestured to Tony's collapsing hairstyle. "That."

Tony laughed. "Hey!"

"You would look striking in jewel tones," Leliana continued unabated. "With hair so long, many styles would suit you. Have you ever worn a heeled shoe?"

"Not voluntarily."

"Hmm." Clearly, to the Spymaster, this was a character flaw. "Do you prefer wool and hessian, or were you attempting to be frugal?"

"Oh!" Josephine brought both hands to her mouth, looking at Tony with bright eyes. "A bolero, perhaps. Red, trimmed with vair."

Leliana nodded. "An excellent idea, Josie. I can barely see you under that wool coat, Herald."

Tony was entirely out of her depth. Vair? Hessian? She liked to think she had a good grasp on vocabulary, but she'd never learned this. "I'm glad you're having fun?"

"Let us take care of it," said Leliana. Josephine nodded, pulling out a sheet of paper and a quill for notes. "The Inquisition is building a reputation. You cannot help us build it while dressed like a pile of laundry."

Tony shrugged again. "I can't say I care, but hey, free clothes."

Leliana smiled at her. "With pockets," she promised.

A small weight lifted, and Tony smiled back.

Chapter Text

Evening meetings in the Chantry were now light dinners, but when they ran late, Tony still found it within herself to be annoyed. Cullen, looking pale and gaunt even for him, referred to his notes as he spoke. "There have been reports of rifts from the Storm Coast to the Fallow Mire. While we have reports of demons in Orlais, no one has announced the presence of a rift. Whether this is due to distance from the Breach, luck, or subterfuge, I cannot say."

Tony considered the map and munched on a pickle. "Do we think the Breach is the epicenter of all this?"

"It would stand to reason." He drew an invisible line on the map, finger travelling out from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. "Based on the reports, scouts saw the most distant rifts at approximately the same time. I cannot speak for the state of the Veil on the other side of the Frostbacks." He was clearly annoyed that he couldn't.

Leliana said, "We have suspicions about rift locations, but no hard evidence."

"Nor permission to seal them," added Josephine. "Entering the property of any landowning noble in Orlais would require an invitation bearing the seal of at least a Marquis. They know who we are, and what we can do. Should the need become stronger, they will attempt to summon us there." Josephine's mouth twisted as she thought. "Free of charge, I might add."

If they had been talking about anyone else, Tony would have balked at charging anyone money for closing a rift. As it stood, Orlesian nobility were allowing demons to run freely through their lands, killing their countrymen instead of asking for help from the one group that could solve the problem. Her sympathy was appropriately limited. "We'll focus on the East, then. And the North, past Lake Calenhad."

"If you take the Imperial Highway, Redcliffe would be on your way," said Leliana. "That is where the First Enchanter asked to meet you, yes?"

Tony shook her head. "Yeah, but from Haven, we should take the Northern fork around the Lake."

Cullen's brow furrowed. "Why? Gherlen's Pass has been safe from this so far."

"Not the Pass," agreed Tony, rubbing her forehead. "Sorry. I meant--under." She squinted at the map. "Is there a cardinal direction for 'down'?"

Cassandra looked blank, then surprised. "You mean to travel underground?"

Tony let her hand fall and nodded. "The Breach is in the Frostbacks; Orlais and Ferelden are our neighbors, but we are maybe literally on top of the Dwarven Empire. Leliana, you mentioned a lead on a Grey Warden in the Hinterlands, didn't you?" Tony flipped through her journal. "Warden... Warden Blackwall?" Leliana nodded. "There should be some in Orzammar, shouldn't there? That's where they go at the end of their careers, I thought. Or, rather, Brother Genitivi did, and I read his book." She squinted, looking past the map. "I should cross-reference him more often. He's prolific, but he's... unceremonious."

"Chatty," offered Leliana.

"Chatty," agreed Tony. "Thank you, that's exactly it." She looked back to Cullen. "Have there been reports of rifts from the Dwarven Empire?"

Cullen was surprised. "No. That is, there are no scouts investigating... underground rifts," he said. In his mouth, the suggestion sounded strange. "The Veil is above us, not below."

This was news to Tony. "It is?"

"Yes," he asserted. Then, he paused. "Or, that is..." Finally, he frowned. "That is what the Chant teaches us."

"Oh." Tony shifted her weight from foot to foot. "That's... great."

"I've never thought to question it," he admitted, hand at the back of his neck. "I am no mage, but as a Templar, I was able to strengthen the Veil around me. I... I cannot be certain from which direction my abilities originated."

Cassandra shook her head. "The Veil is above us. The Herald came to us from the Breach. She fell from above, from the sky. There is no reason to believe otherwise."

Tony didn't know whether Cassandra was coming from a place of science or faith, but it didn't really matter at the moment. "And rifts are spreading from the Breach outward. Why wouldn't they spread into the Deep Roads? Am I missing something?"

Leliana tilted her head, hand at her chin. "A mission to Orzammar is not a bad idea. Part of why we wish to contact Blackwall is due to the sudden lack of Wardens in Southern Thedas. However, it may be worth checking the Deep Roads closest to the surface. That is where Grey Wardens..." Her face went blank. "Retire."

"Makes sense to me." She looked to Josephine. "Is this doable?"

"It is not undoable, Your Worship," she said, quill flying across her parchment. "It will simply require advance planning--we have a contact in the merchant caste, and our contract for lyrium is quite valuable."

Tony blinked. "A contract?"

"Lyrium is mined exclusively by the Dwarven Empire. For the Conclave--for the Templars in Haven," explained Josephine, "they require a certain amount to guarantee use of their abilities. Ordinarily, Templars would receive their lyrium from the Chantry directly, but since the mage rebellion, the supply lines have been... questionable. The Inquisition has a standing order with the dwarven mining caste, supplying us with enough lyrium to supply the needs of two hundred Templars." Her expression grew downhearted. "After the Conclave, we--inherited--the supply."

Tony's heartbeat began to up the tempo. "Wait. Are you saying that the Inquisition has an order signed by Divine Justinia to oversee the supply of lyrium for the Chantry? The Inquisition specifically?"

Josephine appeared intrigued. "I would have to review the document to be certain. No doubt there are stipulations in place; the Dwarven Empire is at least as fastidious as the Chantry when it comes to such agreements."

"What else do we have of Divine Justinia's?" Tony leaned forward, hands on the war table. "What else did she sign? The--the holy writ, that book--Cassandra, the book that you have that established the Inquisition, did she personally write anything in it?"

Cassandra frowned. "Yes, I believe so. Why is this important?"

Josephine walked quickly from the war table, exiting the council room for her office. Tony explained, "There's still no Divine, right? And all the highest ranking members of the Chantry, they died at the Conclave." She stuttered, surprised at her own callousness. "Perished. They--well, the Knight-Vigilant and the Divine did, and new ones haven't been selected. I'm sorry, I don't want to sound cold."

Josephine burst back in, stack of papers in her arms. "The Inquisition," she announced, radiating happiness. "Before the Conclave, weeks before, she signed off on the renewal of the contract with the Dwarven Empire alongside King Bhelen himself. Southern Thedas' contract with the Dwarves this year is with the Inquisition, not the Chantry."

Tony smiled back, but tried to focus on explaining things to the others. "Divine Justinia didn't just give the Inquisition permission to form," she said. "According to the highest-ranking member of the Chantry, we control the lyrium trade. She made sure that the surface distribution of lyrium would go to the Inquisition, not the Chantry. Maybe if--if she'd survived, she would have updated it, changed it back, something, but... As it is, it's--this is huge."

Cullen asked, "Could the claim not be contested?"

Josephine shook her head, shuffling through letters and orders. "Only by the highest ranking members of the Chantry. Until they elect a new Divine, we are the beneficiaries of this agreement."

Tony returned to her notes. "Templars need lyrium in order to use their powers, right? Maybe the Templars under Lord Seeker Lucius aren't as strong as we thought--how could they be getting their lyrium without the cooperation of the Dwarven Empire?"

"The Carta," began Josephine, but Cullen interrupted by saying, "It is not that simple."

Tony looked at him, surprised.

Cullen said, "It is not simply a source of power. For mages, lyrium is merely a concentrated source of energy; for Templars, it is something more." He glared at the table. "They will have lyrium. The alternative is impossible."

She waited for him to continue, but it appeared his tongue was tied into a painful knot. Cassandra took up the conversation on his behalf, slightly changing its trajectory. "We have received a report from the scouts at Therinfal Redoubt. It is clear that the Templars there are still using their abilities. Perhaps their lyrium is from the Carta, as Josephine began to say. Criminals." She appeared disturbed by the idea. "The Lord Seeker I knew would not permit such a thing, but that means little now."

Tony was still looking at Cullen, confused by his sudden moodswing. There was food available on a side table, but he had yet to touch it. Was he coming down with something?

"Lady Antonia," said Josephine, "this is most inspiring. I will reach out to our contact in this matter. Perhaps the Shaperate would be able to provide historical precedent for our situation; Orzammar is meant to have quite the library of records."

"My agents will investigate as well," said Leliana. "But this will not happen overnight, Herald. The Storm Coast should be our next destination."

Tony nodded, forcing herself to look away from the obviously sickly Commander. "Sounds good to me. Thanks, everyone. Should we call it a night?"

The meeting adjourned, but Cullen and Cassandra remained in the back room. Tony knew without asking that she wasn't invited to this side convo, and so left with the others.

It wasn't particularly surprising that the stress was catching up with Cullen. He woke up before her every day, and kept working long after she'd gone to sleep. He didn't seem to feel hunger, needing to be reminded of the existence of things like lunch and snacks. He didn't hydrate, either; other than his habitual morning tea, she never saw him drink anything. Unless something magical was going on, he was courting a fainting spell with every passing day.

What could she do about it, though? What more could she do, short of picking up a spoon and telling him to open up for the airplane? They were friendly--they were friends, she thought--but no one appreciated that kind of high-handed condescension. It bugged her, but she could deal with it. It wasn't like it was affecting his work, so far as she could tell.

Tony was almost at her cabin when Solas caught her eye. It seemed he was only just returning home as well. He noted her exhaustion and said, "Good evening, Antonia. Would you care for a glass of wine, before you retire?"

Tony smiled, shoulders finally relaxing. "Absolutely. God, you would not believe the day I've had."

Solas' cabin was the mirror image of Tony's: a writing desk, a bed, a stack of books. However, where Tony had done her level best to keep her desk organized, his was barely controlled chaos. She could see two separate books which had broken quills within as bookmarks, and there were rings on the wood where a cup had been. There was parchment both stacked and in tight rolls, tied with red string for Leliana's ravens. A cursory glance told Tony that Solas was both reading and writing in multiple languages.

He cleared a bit of space for the wine and gestured to one of two chairs. "Two whole chairs," said Tony, sitting down. "Unbelievably cushy digs, Solas. How'd you get so lucky?"

"I was staying here before the Conclave," he said. "Since I decided to remain here, no one has thought to move me."

"Nice." 

Solas sat, then poured the wine with a practiced angle of the wrist. "Your day," he prompted. "I assume there was a meeting in the Chantry." 

Tony sighed, relaxing into the chair and crossing her legs at the ankle. "Yeah. I still don't know what I'm doing, going to those."

The first sip of wine caused Solas' face to smooth. Tony took a drink as well, and found it similar to a young merlot. Solas was not a verbose sommelier; he didn't talk about the legs of the wine, or comment on the year. He simply enjoyed it, treating it with respect instead of the means to an end. Tony was glad her allowance money from Josephine had not gone to waste.

Solas returned the glass to the table, perhaps examining its color in the lamplight. "It is your due," he said.

"As Herald, you mean?" She rolled her eyes, glaring out through the misty window. "You and I both know that's a fuckin' lie. I wouldn't mind so much if I weren't... if the Herald of Andraste weren't the figurehead of this whole thing." She gestured with her free hand, encompassing the snowy grounds outside. "None of this was my idea. The more I learn about the Chantry, the less I want to be involved with it."

He tilted his head, an almost avian gesture, as he considered her. "That does not preclude an involvement with the Inquisition, as the Chantry has long since denounced it."

"I don't know enough about it to hate it, either," she said. "Or..."

Did she hate the Chantry? She wasn't crazy about organized religion at the best of times, and Lord Seeker Lucius punching a nun hadn't endeared her to Andraste's faithful. Cullen had mentioned that he had few good memories of his time as a Templar, and the grim face he'd been making led her to believe he was understating things. After that argument, she'd been focused on studying lyrium, but very little was written about it. It was a mystery rock from deep beneath the earth, around where the darkspawn lived, and it gave the Templars their abilities--Genitivi hadn't explained further. As for Andrastianism itself, the candles, the robes, and even Mother Giselle's headdress reminded her of her own religious upbringing, which didn't exactly inspire the warm fuzzies. Still, 'hate' seemed like the wrong word. 

"I think it's more accurate to say that I don't trust it," Tony admitted. "You know how every single person in that room in the Chantry is a faithful Andrastian, other than me?"

His lips twitched into a small smile. "And human, yes."

"Almost all of the soldiers are human, too. I've never met a runner who didn't swear things to the Maker. I mean, we meet in a church. It feels... I'm worried, I guess, that we're..." She smiled sadly and rubbed her face with her hands. "Fuck me. I was about to ask, 'Am I using religious fanaticism for a good reason?' Is there ever a good reason for religious fanaticism?"

"You do not like the taste of power, it seems." He nodded to her. "First your title, now the Inquisition as a whole."

"All I want to do is help." She sighed again. "Help plug up the rifts, which is all I am apparently capable of doing. I was talking to the Commander about who to approach about the Breach a while ago, but I don't even know what the Breach is, really. I don't know what this is," she said, holding up her gloved left hand. "Or what it is that makes up the Fade. You said I could control things in my dreams, and that's supposed to, what, make me a mage? What the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

He considered his wine glass instead of her face, but his focused expression told her that he was carefully attending to her words.

She said, "There is no magic, where I'm from. I've never cast a single spell--isn't magic supposed to appear somewhere around adolescence? And..." She licked her lips, tasting how rough and chapped they had become in the snowy weather. "I don't know, Solas. It's... weird, I guess, to think that I've changed without even noticing. What do you think?"

"There are any number of possibilities. I could not venture to say." After a moment of thought, he suggested, "Magic has to do with will. If you do not believe you can cast, you cannot. Your own doubt may be your barrier. As for the source of your abilities... perhaps your fall through the Fade left more than the mark on your hand."

Her first thought was of the 1989 Batman movie, where Jack Nicholson fell into a vat of chemicals and became the Joker. Or that scene during the climax of Robocop, where a random thug fell into toxic waste and became a horrific mutant. She thought about that shard of Jamba Juice cup, and how Cullen had handled it as though it might be radioactive. If falling through the Fade had affected her chemical composition, how would she know? There was no one she could ask. Brother Genitivi had never ventured physically into the Fade. If he had, he would have never shut up about it.

Her only resource was the man in front of her. "Looks like I need to rely on you even more." At the question in his eyes, she explained. "You've already said I can ask you about things--magic, the Veil, the Fade." She summoned up a smile. "I'd also like to be your friend. How's that sound?"

He considered her with more focus than her weak joke had asked for. Eventually he said, "I do not know how to explain--how to define you. There are times where you show a scholarly depth of knowledge, and there are others where you choose to be simply childish. Despite it all, I believe we have more in common than not." He inclined his head in a regal nod. "Yes. I would appreciate your friendship."

That was disarmingly sincere. She didn't enjoy being called childish, but Solas had an undeniable aura of "adult" about him. He always had; when they'd first met on the mountainside, his aloofness had reminded her of a professor who had been inconveniently waylaid between classes. Wanting to keep things light, Tony nodded to the books on the desk. "Reading anything interesting?"

"Somewhat," he said. He picked the topmost book off the stack and handed it to her. "It is Varric's most popular work. I was curious to see how an author of fiction would present the events in Kirkwall."

The Tale of the Champion. Tony ran a hand along the cover, fascinated. "I was just talking to someone about this," said Tony, surprised. "Is it any good?"

Solas took a moment to select just the right word. "No."

Tony laughed. "Harsh. Why not?"

"The narration is so biased as to be misleading," he said, and then they were off to the races. "It's no wonder it has gained such overwhelming popularity, given the mismanagement of the subject matter. Out of context, a passage would easily be mistaken for an excerpt from a serialized romance." His tone made the comparison damning. "Were it written simply as entertainment, perhaps it would have merit, but it is touted as the only complete first-person account of the events leading up to the destruction of Kirkwall's Chantry and the subsequent mage rebellion. When I sought it out, I had expected to feel the weight of history in the telling. Instead, I found frivolous stories about a drunk and her bawdy stumblings. Of course the Tale is well-received; it appeals to the insensate and barely literate masses." He squinted at her. "Has something amused you?"

"Yeah," said Tony, smiling into her wine. "I dunno. You're funny."

He almost sneered at that, expression comically imperious. "Is that so?"

She bit her lip, but it didn't keep her from grinning. After a moment, his false superiority fell away, and they were both in on the joke. By the time they said their goodbyes and goodnights, it was as though there had never been any awkwardness between them.

-

Council of the Inquisition,

Do you all have a team name(1)? Could that be your team name? It sounds appropriately highfalutin(2).

Haven had me under the impression that it was high winter, but spring has sprung(3) in Ferelden. Unfortunately, Orzammar is currently closed to all comers. I know we didn't have a formal invitation--sorry, Josephine--but just waltzing up would have been more than adequate a year ago, according to the merchants posted up by the gates. Ever since the mage rebellion, only residents and Grey Wardens are permitted entry. When I asked Guard Kurag(4) if I could be permitted to speak with any of the Grey Wardens currently beyond the gates, she laughed at me. Was that a stupid question? I didn't think so, but honestly, my judgement wrt(5) the Dwarven Empire is based on Human accounts.

We have decided to press on to the Storm Coast. The weather is awful. It's almost like we're headed to the Storm Coast.(6)

Respectfully,

Tony

(1) A title for the Ambassador, Commander, Seeker, and Spymaster as a group

(2) Respectable, formal

(3) Idiom; "Spring has begun"

(4) Spelled phonetically, most likely incorrect

(5) Initialism; "with regard to"

(6) This is a stupid joke

-

Tourists were often disappointed by the San Francisco Bay.  There were no waves taller than a meter, and the temperature was bracing at best. Still, the morning fog would burn away before the afternoon, and on a good day the water would be blue and shimmering. Not ideal for surfing, but kayaking and fishing were both popular, as was sunbathing along the rocky shore. Tony had never been to a beach that wasn't swarming with other people, even in the middle of November. The best thing she could say about the Storm Coast was that it was not swarming with anyone or anything. If she faced out into the roaring iron waves, she could pretend to be the only person in the world.

Otherwise, she had few compliments to offer. The Storm Coast was true to its name. It could have also been called The Shitty Coast, or The Coast of No Colors.

"I hate this," Tony announced.

"Take it up with the Maker," said Varric. "I can't turn off the rain for you."

"But would you?" She gave Varric her best lovestruck look. "If you could? For me?"

"Be silent," said Cassandra, dropping into a squat. "There, up ahead."

Tony crouched and looked to where Cassandra pointed. Over the roar of the ocean and the constant hissing rain, she could barely hear it: combat.

"They are dressed as Tevinter mages," said Solas. "It seems our information is accurate."

Tony looked to Solas. "Do you see a Qunari?"

"With a maul, yes."

"I guess this is an audition." Tony took a breath and wiped her soaking face with an equally soaking hand. "Do we help? I'd like to help."

Solas nodded, and as he did, Varric disappeared into smoke. Cassandra bolted ahead, throwing herself into battle. Solas merely stood, casting a shield around himself and Tony before launching electricity at the mages attacking the Chargers.

Tony stayed seated, not interested in catching an arrow to the dome. "Do they look good, in your opinion? Are they... winning?"

"Inelegantly put," said Solas, "but yes."

"Sorry."

He smiled, amused, before he let out a frozen missile of magic.

Soon, the Tevinter mages were meat. They fell to the grey gravel of the beach, some of them whole, some of them in pieces, all of them getting a jump-start in decomposition from the rain. Tony approached the battlefield and focused instead on the living. She felt adrift in herself, but did her best to focus. Now was not the time to flip out about death; she could do that in private.

If Iron Bull was a standard example of a Qunari, Tony needed to do some serious rethinking about the Inquisition's personnel. He was built like a tank--muscled for purpose, not just for show--and had a set of horns one could use to hang an entire wardrobe's worth of clothes. Tony's unsettlement only increased as she experienced vertigo brought on by perspective. She kept walking toward him, certain that this, now, would be his true size, only to realize he was still meters away.

He called out to his men, and Tony chose to focus on his voice. It was deep, but not coarse or guttural. He sounded like he'd be able to carry a tune; possibly he was a baritone. She struggled to cling onto this detail so that she wouldn't scream in fear.

Iron Bull was speaking to Ser Aclassi when Tony approached. They discussed the losses--none, thank God, though some wounded--and then Iron Bull turned his mass to face Tony. Only then did Tony notice the eyepatch attached to his face with leather straps. The patch itself was shining metal, almost daring her to look at it instead of his working eye. Tony chose to focus on his eye anyway, and found it to be calculating.

"So," he said, office-water-cooler casual, "you're with the Inquisition, huh? Glad you could make it. Come on, have a seat. Drinks are coming."

Iron Bull's posture was relaxed--he shifted his weight easily from one foot to the other, his horns exaggerating the movement. Tony did everything in her power to keep eye contact with him. "Hello."

It was hard to tell, given the scars, but Tony thought she saw him frown. "Something wrong?"

Tony weighed her options, and decided that her only recourse was honesty. "I've never seen a Qunari before. I don't want to be rude, but I also don't know how not to be."

He smiled. Relative to the sheer mass of his body, the smile was nearly microscopic, but it was there. "Don't worry about it. Take a load off."

They sat on rocks--or, more accurately, they sat in puddles on rocks, their trousers too wet from rain for it to make a difference. Iron Bull brought up business, but Tony was more interested in his initial invitation. "Sorry to interrupt, Ser--Lord? What title would you prefer?"

"None," he said, "but if you're offering, I'll take an article. The full name is The Iron Bull."

Tony nodded. "I apologize for interrupting, The Iron Bull." He nodded, looking almost charmed. Tony had made herself small, perched on the very lip of her seat, knees together and fingers laced. "I have a few questions, before we proceed."

"Ah." He looked up, and Tony followed his gaze to Ser Aclassi. He called him Krem, and was about to dismiss him before Tony made to stand. The Iron Bull held out a hand, suggesting Tony remain in her seat. She did. "You remember my lieutenant."

"I do." She looked at Krem. "That's actually--Ser Aclassi, you are the subject of my first question." He stood, arms crossed, and considered her. She said, "You were an interesting choice in messenger."

Krem huffed. "Was that a question?"

"He's my second in command," said The Iron Bull. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Tony looked to The Iron Bull, feeling accused. "Not personally, but I'm new to the area. I've been led to believe that a man from Tevinter carries a lot of political weight with him, down here in the South. What message did you mean to send, when you sent him?"

There was a beat of silence. The Iron Bull and Tony looked at each other. Tony was running mental calculations; perhaps he was doing the same.

"I didn't mean anything bad," said The Iron Bull, finally. "Sorry if you took it that way."

Tony let out the breath she'd been holding. "I didn't. I was just--worried about intentions, that's all." She looked up at Krem, smiling in apology. "I'm not trying to sound like an asshole."

"Not for me to say," said Krem, tacitly saying plenty. He left to drink with the other men, and Tony sat back a bit on her rock.

The Iron Bull rolled his shoulders, drawing attention to his thick neck and rack of horns. Their points looked almost spearlike. "He's a good fighter. They all are, but he's my lieutenant for a reason. Since you're not a local, I figured it would make more sense to send a skilled man than a 'politically correct' one."

Tony gave him a slow blink. "Where do you think I'm from, The Iron Bull?"

He laughed in a low rumble. It was smooth and almost gentle, like the blunt back of a knife. She fought against the shiver of fear it caused. "I've heard a lot of stories. Some people say you're from some nowheresville town in Ferelden, others say you're a lord's bastard from the Free Marches. The earliest rumors about you, though? Those are all about you falling out of the Fade like a human-shaped demon and vowing to seal up the sky. About how you're from a world outside of Thedas."

She did not need to fake the exhausted sigh that information pulled from her. "Jesus. And what do you think?"

"I'm not paid to think." A woman with a mage's staff on her back approached with two tankards. Bull took one, and Tony the other, Tony covering the opening with her hand to keep the rain out. Bull continued, "I'm paid to fight, and I'm paid to write down what I see." At Tony's obvious bafflement, he explained, "I'm a spy."

Tony nearly laughed in relief. "Oh, God. That--thank fuck. I thought I was being racist." He gave her a confused smile. "Just--you're suspicious, you know too much about me, but I've never met a Qunari before, and I thought I was being ridiculous."

He tilted his horns. "You're in your own head a lot, huh?"

"Who, me?" She made sure that all of the Chargers were drinking from the same cask, and then allowed herself a sip of beer. "Anyway, thanks for being honest. For whom do you spy? Or is that another service you offer?"

"I'm Ben-Hassrath."

He explained that he was a scout for his people, which made boatloads of sense to Tony. He expressed surprise that she was being so easygoing about this, but she just shrugged. "You're from a different country, you've got a different religion, but there's just the one sky. Why wouldn't your people want to know what's going on?"

"We don't come cheap," said The Iron Bull.

Tony shrugged again. "It ain't my money."

He gave her a look. "Right."

She smiled at him. "Anyway, you have a vested political interest in hanging around. You were ordered to infiltrate the Inquisition, weren't you?" She gestured with her drink. He watched. "I already have bodyguards, The Iron Bull. I'm not in such dire straits that we have to hire a foreign agent to protect me. You, though. You have to watch me. It's your job. Theoretically, we don't have to hire you at all, do we?"

He took a deep pull from his drink. With his face hidden behind the tankard, it was harder to ignore the strength in his chest and arms.

It was a ridiculously obvious display of strength, and it made Tony laugh. "I'm not saying we're not going to pay you. The Ambassador speaks highly of the Chargers, and what Josie wants, Josie gets. All I'm saying is, I get where you're coming from. And," she added, gesturing with her tankard, "for future reference, flexing at me is just about the worst way to dissuade me from things. If it's anything, it's encouragement."

He huffed. "Y'know, I thought this would be a different sort of conversation. Most people outside of the Qun freak out at the idea of being spied on. Looks like I had you pegged wrong."

"Don't remind me, The Iron Bull," said Tony, smile sliding into a leer. "I haven't been pegged right in years."

He laughed again, but it wasn't the same creepy, gentle chuckle as before. It was still gravelly, as though he'd suffered a throat injury in the past, but it was booming and apparently sincere. Tony decided that she liked him. There was something reasonable about him, almost blue collar, as though being a mercenary had buffed out the edges of complex diplomacy that she would have expected from a completely alien person. His easy affability gave her permission to be curious, and made her want to ask questions.

If this was on purpose--a calculated attempt to get on her good side--then it was working, and she almost didn't care. She'd missed casual. If it came in the form of a foreign spy, so be it. If he tried anything, Cassandra would mount his severed head on the wall of Haven's Chantry, anyway.

They both waved to their people, inviting the others to join their drinking. They had an entire cask to get through, and Tony didn't want to waste it. Varric partook of a tankard, settling in beside her on the damp rock. Ser Aclassi--The Iron Bull called him Krem--came to join as well, though he was less enthusiastic about it. The lukewarm rain made Tony feel as though they were together in the world's strangest public showers, racing to drink their ale before nature watered it down for them.

Cassandra and Solas did not drink, instead choosing to speak with the Chargers by their cart. Perhaps it was about tactics, or contracts, or trustworthiness. All Tony knew was that the weather was bad, riding a horse for days was bad, and the ale in her tankard wasn't horrible.

"So," said The Iron Bull, "are you gonna confirm any of those stories for me?"

"You're the spy," she countered, smiling up at him. "You've gotta have hypotheses."

Watching The Iron Bull move remained a lesson in kinesiology. Tony had never met a bodybuilder, but she had met plenty of bouncers who'd pretended; in other words, she had seen her fair share of swollen biceps and chicken legs. The Iron Bull wasn't built like a bouncer. He was built like he was training to lift the Frostbacks.

He gave her a smile that was too pretty to be honest, and said, "Sure I do. I still gotta ask."

Tony brought a hand to her damp tangle of braids and curls and tossed them over her shoulder. They connected to her back with a wet slap. "I can't just tell you, The Iron Bull. Where's the fun in that?"

She sipped her drink and caught Varric's eye. He was drinking as well, but his tense expression was clearly visible from her angle. Apparently, Tony was playing a dangerous game.

When she surfaced from her beverage, she said, "It's probably obvious, anyway. As I said, I'm not local. Give it a few days. You'll figure it out."

He didn't react badly to the challenge. He didn't seem to react at all, his expression and posture suggesting vague amusement and nothing else. Tony wondered how he would get along with Leliana and Josephine. The three of them could probably have an entire argument communicated entirely by the flick of wrists and the raising of eyebrows.

They drained their tankards and then parted ways, the Chargers leaving straight for Haven, Tony's company staying to rid the Coast of rifts. The thick mist showed no signs of stopping, and Tony's horse had begun to stink of animal sweat and muck. In order to stay in its good graces, she fed it one of the carrots meant for their camp dinner. It wasn't much, but it at least kept it from those theatrical sighs that painfully pushed her thighs apart.

-

Lady Antonia,

Thank you for your report. Thank you also for your translations or notes. Is there a word for numbered comments, where you come from?

We have received many new arrivals from the West in your absence. Josephine wishes to organize a social affair upon your return to Haven(1).

Last night, Serenna Stoke was delivered of a son. She's named him Colby.

Walk in the Maker's grace, my Lady.

Respectfully,

Commander Cullen

(1) If you do not wish for this, tell her.

-

Cullen(1),

The numbered notes have a few different names, but I think of them as footnotes. When composing a letter, I refer to the "header"--the part where I address all recipients by name or title--and the "footnotes"--the explanations and definitions that come after my sign-off. It's a very fiddly form of letter-writing, and if you dislike it, feel free to forego it entirely.

It's come to my attention that folks(2) don't know me well enough to like or dislike me; my footnotes are an attempt to define myself via my multivarious(3) forms of address.

Fuck the Storm Coast. You know how I hate the cold? It's warmer here, but it's also constantly raining. I think I hate the rain just as much, if not more. "Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes(4)".

Colby! What a sweet name. I hope that everyone is doing well and staying healthy. And warm! If you still have the other half of the bear pelt you used for your coat, maybe give it to them?

Where I am from, messages like this are instantaneous. I would be able to harass you about eating breakfast every day. Aren't you grateful we aren't in California, Commander?

Take a nap,

Tony

(1) This letter is meant to be interpersonal. However, I (Tony) understand that it will be read by others, most notably agents of Leliana's. Hello, agents. I hope you're staying safe.

(2) Most residents of Haven

(3) Invented compound word; "multi," meaning "many," and "various," meaning "diverse"

(4) Quote from Walt Whitman, poet; contradictions are inherent in a sufficiently complex "self"/soul/person

-

The first time Tony saw a dragon, it was fighting a giant in the pouring rain. She and her companions hid in a shallow cave, studying the distant battle, wondering if they could make it to the next sickly-green rift along the shore.

It surprised her that the dragon was beautiful. Even from a distance, even through the grey of the rain, it glowed with health and power. She rolled up her sleeves, waited for her hands to dry, then pulled out her journal, intending to sketch it in ink.

Cassandra saw Tony reach for her journal and scoffed, but Tony didn't rise to the bait. You only see a dragon for the first time the once, and she didn't want to forget a single detail.

Its horns were on a downward-angled slant, parallel with the line of its nasal ridge, giving the entire head the silhouette of a snowplow. From what she could tell, its mouth had no lips, but instead the beak of a raptor, made to shred and pull apart fleshy prey--but the next second, its jaw snapped, and she could see the horrible shadow of its teeth. There was not a single pound of the creature to spare; its skin and muscles were taut against its skeleton, emphasizing the point of its sternum and the hollow of its belly. It walked on four legs, every toe ending in a massive talon. When it moved, it held its batlike wings up, as though it were an owl taking a dust bath. The ground shook with its every stride. How much did it weigh? How could those wings possibly support a body so massive? Those markings, those long, irregular stripes of white and yellow, could have been mistaken for a Qunari vitaar--were those unique to this dragon, or were such markings common for the species?

The dragon fought with every limb, backhanding the giant with its forelegs and kicking with its hindlegs, sweeping its spiked tail out and felling trees with a single swipe. When its wings began to beat in earnest, the wind it summoned made a Venn diagram pattern in the mud at its feet. The wings seemed to expand, gripping the air in the flexible membrane between its splayed bones, and all at once the dragon took flight, tail lashing out one last time in an insulting slap to the giant's face. When it joined the steely clouds, it screamed, purple lightning flashing into the murky sky.

The giant looked up as well, watching the retreating dragon without obvious comprehension. It moved without grace, reminding Tony of an enormous Neanderthal, only comparable to modern humans in that it was a two-armed biped with five fingers. It was furry, and knobby, and had tusks that would put any elephant to shame. After a long minute, it retreated back against the rocks and out of sight.

Tony's knees buckled, and she fell to the floor of the cave, hitting the stone with only her ass as a cushion. "Wow," she breathed.

During her fixation, the others had set up camp. The horses were huddled together under an overhanging rock, and the campfire was only just beginning to catch onto the sodden logs. Cassandra had finished setting up their tent and was presumably inside, stripping off her sodden travelling clothes. Varric was spreading his clothes out flat on the stone near the fire, currently clad only in sleeping trousers and a grim expression. Solas, sitting cross-legged with his hands a bowl in his lap, looked out into the rain, facing where the battle had just been fought.

Tony looked to Solas. "Wow," she said again.

He nodded once, acknowledging her awe with subdued understanding. "Fascinating creatures, are they not?"

"Absolutely," she agreed, still buzzing with adrenaline. She crawled over to where Solas sat, crossing her own legs and sitting up straight beside him. "I probably don't have to tell you that there aren't any dragons, where I'm from."

He continued to look out into the evening. There was no seeing the sunset through the rain, but darkness was definitely falling, turning the sky slowly from silver to jet. Solas' eyes were ordinarily grey themselves, but the particular warmth of the fire behind them and the cold of the stone around them caught hidden colors around his irides. At that moment, his eyes seemed almost purple, the color of thistle flowers. Eerie. Fae.

"It is said," Solas explained, "that before recorded history, dragons ruled the skies uncontested. They existed before the Blight, as well--they are singularly resistant to the Taint of darkspawn blood. Even before the Veil, there were dragons."

Tony's eyebrows shot up. "There was a time before the Veil?"

"Certainly." He smiled, but it was small, the fullness of his lips the only reason Tony could see it in the low light. "There was water before there were cups, Antonia. The Veil is a barrier between two things. Why would there be a barrier before both things existed?"

Immediately, Tony tried to think of a counterexample. "I mean, you mentioned water." She held out her hand, holding her palm parallel to the ground. "Water has a--like, a barrier, a curve--a meniscus, where you can rest a sewing needle and it won't fall through."

He turned his tiny smile to her. "And does this barrier exist without air?"

She frowned. "I... don't know. Maybe?"

"Without gravity?"

She shrugged.

He looked pleased. "Once again, your familiarity with science has surprised me. It does my metaphor discredit, but in the interest of your education--yes, there is a meniscus around water that is devoid of gravity's pull. I have seen such things in the Fade."

Tony thought about astronauts swallowing free-floating globules of coffee. That made sense. "Sorry. I distracted you from your point."

"My point," he said, entirely unoffended, "is simple. In the time before Humanity, dragons ruled the sky. Dwarves, the Children of the Stone, lived beneath the blanket of the Earth. And the People, the Elvhen with all their magic, created civilization upon the land of Thedas." He held out a hand, palm out and fingers spread, gesturing to the now-invisible horizon. "Spires of glass, delicate as crystal and strong as steel. Gardens with every single flower in full bloom, never to wilt. Libraries of every understanding ever reached, all transcribed on the softest vellum with ink itself made from magic." When he brought his hand back, it was as though it were weighed down with invisible chains. He let it drop into his lap once more. "This was the time before the Veil separated magic from our lives."

Tony was not a historian. Her understanding of history came from stories, many of which included a sort of dragon as a symbol: power, destruction, the natural world. When she looked around--when she scratched at her red, bumpy skin--she thought of things in terms of medieval Europe. When Solas spoke of the enlightened time of ancient elves, she wondered if she should be considering the "modern day" as the Dark Ages, instead.

"Dragons were once more," he said. "They were masters of their domain, and did not need to wrest their food from the domain of humans. Now?" He shook his head, eyes on the ground before his feet. "They scavenge. They eat carrion to survive. Once, they were as gods." His small smile dropped from his face, leaving Solas with a blank expression. "Perhaps it is best that they are animals, and have no wisdom. They have no understanding of their fall from divinity."

Outside, the mist thickened into rain. It fell against the stony shore with a hiss, dying everything a shade darker than charcoal. If the moons had risen, Tony couldn't see them. She doubted she would before her return south.

Tony adjusted her legs, tucking them closer to her. She said, "I have a sonnet for you. Are you in the mood to hear it?"

He glanced at her. "One of your own devising?"

She smiled, shaking her head. "God, no. Sorry, but you--you've got to be the toughest audience in the universe. No, this is one of William's. Sonnet 30." Solas returned his attention to the rain. Tony took that as permission. If he hated it, he could always stand up and walk away. She said, "I know you don't think much of his plays. He was popular, which pretty much guarantees that he was... I don't want to say 'problematic,' but he was just... a lot. Anyway." She licked her lips and looked out into the black of night. She said,

"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past,

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:

Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,

And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,

And moan th' expense of many a vanish'd sight;

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

Which I new pay as if not paid before.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end."

Rain against stone, and waves against the shore. The crackle of logs behind them, flames finally drying them enough to catch. The smell of simmering stew, one carrot short of completion.

After a while, Solas said, "He is a most sentimental man."

"He's a poet," said Tony. "Are you actually surprised?"

Cassandra and Varric were in their tents by the time Solas and Tony ate dinner. Tony asked if Solas had a favorite poem, and he demurred, insisting that they would not sound right translated into Trade speech. She pressed further, wanting him to recite them in elvish, but still he resisted. Instead, he offered her a story of a prehistoric dragon, one with a wingspan the length of a warship. It could fly for decades, landing only once a century, and a tribe of the People followed in her wake. This was before the invention of cities, he said. It was before the plague of mortality. Tony imagined an infinite Eden, where the ideas of loss and want had yet to be conceived.

That night, Tony fell asleep listening to Cassandra's breath complemented by the rolling of the surf. The waves fell against the beach in a similar rhythm, heavy and slow. It was a familiar, comforting lullaby.

Chapter Text

Tony was back at Haven, and sleep did not come easily.

She'd arrived in the afternoon and spent the daylight hours with Josephine going over contracts and discussing Orlesian political gambits she'd like to make on the Inquisition's behalf. There had been more demon sightings to the west during Tony's journey to and from the Storm Coast. Tony had naively assumed that Orlais' legal system would be less complex than the American one, but Orlais had centuries of fraught history and bureaucratic legalese all its own. Hiring the Chargers took time, figuring out which rifts they were permitted to close took time--even sending invitations to nobility took time, and almost none of the nobles took them up on the offer.

Tony spent the evening slowly sliding down in her seat, overwhelmed by the political machinations of the Inquisition's Ambassador. When her eyes were at the level of Josephine's desk, she asked, "So, if you could give me an estimate on that Orzammar invitation...?"

Josephine did not look up from her notes, but her polite expression gained an edge to it. "Well, my Lady, after you attempted to enter the city without one, the situation has gained a few... shall we say, hurdles to clear."

"So..."

"A month," said Josephine. "At least."

"A month," Tony'd repeated, voice weak. How many people would they lose in a month? If there were rifts in the Dwarven Empire, when would she be able to close them? How many Orlesian citizens would die before Tony was allowed to help?

She'd left Josephine's office with her ears ringing. She'd been postponing thinking about death, putting it all in a box in her mind, and now that she was safe in her cabin, the box wanted to open. The bodies of the Tevinter mages on the Coast had been barely twenty feet from her while she had spoken with Bull. It was impossible to know if that had been meant as an intimidation measure; he was plenty intimidating on his own, but corpses as set dressing worked too. She saw their ashen faces behind her eyelids, and eventually she gave up on sleep completely. She dressed and went to wander the grounds, her oversized wool coat a welcome, if meager, barrier against the cold.

She preferred Haven at night. Beautiful snow, zero people. Well, not quite zero--she was not the only one who was wandering. Everyone had their reasons for sleeplessness, and perhaps some of the soldiers she saw lingering around the embers of the campfire had the same reason that she did.

Master Dennet was a surprise, though. He was stomping around Threnn's area, searching for something. Tony approached, curious.

"There's a mare near to foaling," he said. "She's skittish as anything. Kicked down the fence, just now. Where does the quartermaster keep her roster? I need wood."

"There's a logging stand not too far," said Tony. "I'll show you."

They gathered wood and torches, and Dennet found hammers, nails, and Harritt by the large hole in the fence when they returned.

"They're fine horses," said Harritt, helping Tony with her bundle of planks. "Shame about the stables."

Tony looked over the stables, ignoring the hole in the fence. They weren't very large, and the overhang from the forge barely gave a third of the area a roof. It was a good thing the horses were already familiar with each other, because they were packed in like sardines. No one had told Tony about this problem, but in the low light from the forge and the torches, she felt like an idiot for not seeing it before.

"They need a bigger paddock," she said. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Nothing for it," said Dennet. "It's as big as we can afford, I've been told. You'd think wood didn't grow on trees, the way Threnn's so stingy with it."

Tony and Dennet started arranging planks by size, and Harritt went around checking the strength of the surviving fence. She considered sending soldiers out to gather wood in the morning, but she was wary of sending them on any errands, lately. The surrounding wilderness was growing more dangerous by the day. Even if the mages and Templars made up, the number of angry predators in Ferelden was ridiculous. It was a miracle there were any prey animals left.

"This post's loose," said Harrit. "With what we have, we could move the corners out. Expand a little."

"We could make the fence shorter, couldn't we?" Tony tried and failed to do some mental geometry. "Use wire, or something?"

Dennet snorted. "They'll jump any fence shorter than this one, and they'd run clear through wire."

"Barbed wire?" Dennet and Harritt gave her a blank look. "Barbed--no? Not a thing? Master Harritt, do you have any paper? I'll sketch what I mean."

Pig iron was as common as dirt around the forge. Tony made her sketch, explained how it would work, and offered to help put it all together. The horses, hitched to random posts and fully at the mercy of the elements, whickered and sighed. Harritt found a box full of old nails of random sizes and offered to twist them into barbs.

Dennet was hesitant. "They're not too sharp, are they?"

"No sharper than a thorn bush," said Harritt. "And you've got smart beasts. They won't need to learn the lesson more than once."

Three pairs of hands made relatively light work, though as Harritt was forming the barbs and stringing them on a wire, it mostly fell to Dennet and Tony to plan out the larger paddock. This couldn't wait until morning--the horses would be miserable, and the pregnant mare would be furious. Tony was glad to have a reason not to think.

Of course, nothing good could last. As she was holding a post steady for Dennet to hammer into the frozen ground, a familiar silhouette emerged from Haven's gate.

"Commander," said Dennet in greeting. Tony nodded up at him.

"Master Dennet," he said. "Lady Antonia, welcome back. What's happened?"

"Esmerelda kicked down the fence," said Dennet. "We think she saw a fennec and panicked."

Cullen nodded, then looked at Tony, waiting for her explanation.

Tony was too tired for anything other than honesty. "Couldn't sleep. You?"

"The same," he said. He hesitated, and then returned his focus to Dennet. "Would you like more help?"

"Harritt could use it," said Dennet. "The Herald's given him a mad idea to work on."

Looking curious, Cullen left for the forge. Tony felt her shoulders relax. Dennet continued hammering in the post, and the strength of the blows made her hands vibrate.

Dennet paused only to check the stability of the post. Then, apropos of nothing, he said, "What's your problem, Inquisition?"

Tony looked up at him, baffled. "Sorry?"

"You just about froze when he came by," he said, nodding to where the Commander had gone. "Everything all right there?"

She scoffed. "What are you, a spy?"

"I'm a father," he said, voice gruff.

Only then did Tony recognize that Dennet was worried, not angry. She smiled up at him. "It's fine. I'm just--awkward."

"Ah." He returned to the fence, the subject clearly dropped. Tony was grateful for the manners of old men.

A few minutes later, Cullen was back outside, looking sheepish. It was a brand new expression on him, from Tony's perspective, and it was transformative. He looked young and unsure. "I have been dismissed," he said. "Do you--can I do anything?"

"Harritt's a picky bastard," sighed Dennet. He pointed out where they still needed stakes, and handed him a mallet with a worn handle.

She wondered what Cullen was doing, up at this hour. Of course, she was in no mood to answer that same question, and so she didn't ask it. She decided to ignore him for now, too out of sorts to navigate the stalemate. "How is Seanna, Master Dennet?"

He huffed. "Fine. Misses the Forder more than me, if her letters are any indication."

Tony smiled. "No doubt of her paternity, then."

"Not likely." He wasn't smiling, exactly, but his heavy brow wasn't as furrowed as usual. "She bested your racing time, last I heard."

"Unsurprising," said Tony. "The horse won that race, not me. I was hanging on for dear life."

"I could tell." They moved over to the next post, Tony still kneeling down. "Bron and I watched from up the hill. Not the most graceful rider, are you?"

She gave him a look and adopted a snooty accent, a cross between Orlesian and RP. "I excel at all equestrian pursuits, my Lord. It's simply that my chosen sport is the Unexpected Gallop and Swift Fall."

There was a noise like a snort a few feet to Tony's left. She glanced over, beginning to smile, but Cullen was facing away from her. Only when Harritt returned with a length of wire did she remember what she'd actually intended to say to Dennet. "If you have a letter for your family, there are scouts headed to Redcliffe soon. We could take it along."

"I'll think on it, Inquisition."

Soon, the fence was assembled, the top half of it naked and awaiting the wire. Cullen's stakes had been driven deep into the dirt, making Dennet's job much easier.

"Of course you're good at this," Tony sighed without thinking.

Cullen looked over at her, brows knit. "Why?"

She gestured to him--to all of him, the body that wasn't sweating, the face that was barely pink. "Fereldan."

His frown deepened. "So I must be a stablehand?"

"No," she said, frowning back. "So you must be practical, and know how to do useful things. I--" She rolled her eyes, annoyed with herself. "What I meant to say was, thanks."

His face cleared. "I see." He looked over at the fence. After a moment, he rubbed the back of his hand with his neck. "I, ah. I did grow up on a farm, actually."

"Did you?" She looked over at him, surprised. He'd told her about his childhood, sort of, but it was still difficult to imagine him "growing up" in the normal way. "You didn't just pop up from the ground in plate armor one day?"

He lowered and shook his head, his ruff hiding his expression. "People don't appear out of nowhere. Present company excluded, of course."

"Of course." Tony continued looking at him, astonished that he'd just made a joke. Perhaps this was simply how he showed exhaustion; not through sweat or anything human, but with a weird sense of humor. That would then imply that he was three-in-the-morning exhausted all the time, which wasn't exactly a shock. "That said, I also grew up somewhere, but it wasn't a practical somewhere, so I'm a little jealous."

He gave her a look that was so deeply incredulous that all she could do was laugh.

Soon, they had wire and a few barbs. They led the horses back into the newly-extended paddock, and only one of them tried to eat Tony's hair.

"There's no universe where you thought it was hay," she scolded the horse. The horse snorted. "Don't you take that tone with me."

"If you're done losing an argument with my horses?" Dennet held the gate open for her. Harritt and the Commander were already outside the paddock.

She joined them, and surveyed their work. It was a bit of a miracle they'd gotten so much done; dawn was still hours away, and if you ignored the odd pattern of the snow, there was no clue that the fence had ever been anything but whole.

"Let's hope it stays," said Dennet. "Barbed wire..."

"Look on the bright side," said Tony. "If it doesn't work, then you'll have been right. Won't that feel nice."

The horsemaster gave her a look. "Right. Regardless, thanks for your help, Inquisition. Commander. I'm off to see what Harritt's charging for his help, as I doubt it was a gift."

Dismissed, the Commander and Tony trudged back to Haven together. It was barely a walk--the stables were practically neighboring the gate--but with Tony's mind racing, it felt longer. She had barely slept a few hours that night, and her thoughts kept hitting snags. 

Before she could think of a single useful or interesting comment, Cullen spoke. "I," he said, and then immediately stopped to clear his throat. "I must ask--is everything all right?"

Of course it wasn't. Instead of responding to the question, she said, "I've never built a fence before. I really do hope it works, because I didn't ask Threnn about that wood and she's going to be pissed."

He glanced over to her, then faced forward once more. "Have her take it up with Master Dennet. They can--they will work it out themselves, I'm sure."

"They do speak the same grumpy language," Tony agreed. She rubbed her eyes, willing them to focus. "I'm gonna have such a fucking headache later. I miss my glasses." She yawned, jaw nearly cracking. "Sorry."

He stopped walking. She looked up at him, squinting to see his expression in the near blackness of the night. From what she could see, he didn't look pleased. "My Lady, if something is bothering you..." When he sighed, it was as if his breath had been the only thing keeping his shoulders firm. He slumped, and brought a hand to his face. "Forgive me, but I do not know how to ask this without simply... asking."

She blinked. "What's wrong?"

"That's my question for you," he said. "You've been gone, and I didn't know how to write it in a letter--nor would I have wanted you to reply in one; despite the intelligence of our Spymaster's ravens, their messages can still be intercepted." His face pinched and he shook his head. "Nevermind the ravens. That's not..."

Listening to him attempt to ask about her feelings was like watching him fall down a flight of stairs. Tony shoved her hands in her pockets and spoke up, hoping to put him out of his misery. "I'm fine. I've been fine."

"No," he said, sour face obvious even in the shadows. "You haven't. You--if you were, you wouldn't be up in the middle of the night building fences."

She snorted. "Whereas when you build a midnight fence, it's totally normal."

"We aren't speaking of me." If he'd had more energy, it would have been a snap, but his words were instead a grumble. "I do not understand why you--"

"Look," she said, cutting him off, "if we're going to have this conversation, which we do not need to have, then we are going to do it someplace warmer than the fucking surface of the moon." She frowned. "Moons."

Which is how they ended up in the Chantry. They sat side by side on the pew closest to the pulpit. It was warm at least, with the eternally-lit candles illuminating the mixed barrels and crates. Cullen was on Tony's right, and on her left was a forgotten copy of the written Chant, bound in red leather and stamped with a gilded eye.

The light gilded Cullen, as well. His hair, flaxen under the sun, was burnished gold in the light of a hundred candles. The pallor of his face was hidden, and the purple bruises under his eyes softened in the yellow glow. Tony brought her hands from her pockets, focusing on her cuticles, instead. At least her cuticles weren't distractingly beautiful.

"Josephine's dinner party," he said. "Before you left for the Storm Coast. You... it seemed you were... If there is something troubling you, or--Maker."

She smiled down at her hands. "You're really bad at this."

"I know." He took a deep breath and released it in a sigh. "What I mean to say, my Lady, is if--if you need someone to listen, I would like to. Listen. To you," he needlessly specified. "You're far from home, and you--it seems that you've given up on ever returning, and while I can understand feeling it would be difficult, it is far from impossible. If you feel you must make this sacrifice, please know that it is not required."

Tony's mind caught on the word "sacrifice." She turned to him, eyebrows raised. "Oh, yeah?"

He nodded, earnest in the face of her sarcastic tone. "Lady Vivienne is a highly skilled mage, and has been studying the Breach for weeks. If it were impossible for you to return to your home, she would have said."

It took a few seconds for Tony to understand the full meaning behind that statement. "You've asked her to look into it?"

Cullen's lips thinned. Perhaps he'd meant to hide that bit of info. "Yes."

"Why?"

His hands clenched into fists, the leather of his gloves tightening over his knuckles. "Why would you stay?" The question burst out of him, louder than any of his other gentle stumblings. He looked at her with accusation, as though she'd somehow lied to him. "We're at war. You abhor violence, and yet venture into battlefield after battlefield. You hate swordplay, and yet you come to me every morning you're in Haven for a lesson. Every single time we meet, you find some new reason to be disgusted by this world and its politics, and yet you've said that the Inquisition--the Breach--is your priority." His lip curled at that last word. "I asked what you want, and you refused to answer. I am asking you again, and I will continue to ask until you do."

Tony was almost speechless. She could only manage to say, "I don't hate swordplay."

"Don't you?" He smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Every time you reach for your dagger, you make this... face , I can't explain it, but you obviously find it distasteful."

She could think of no response to that, and so endeavored to change the subject. "You said it was a sacrifice," she said. "Why would you think that?"

His brow furrowed. "Beyond the obvious?" She nodded. He brought a hand to his chin, fingers running along the stubble there as he thought. When his hand fell away, he said, "When I left Ferelden for Kirkwall, I didn't think to look back. I wasn't... my mind was elsewhere. But when I thought of it, I still missed it. Even now, I think of my family." He looked at her. "There is much of my history I would rather forget, but I still think fondly of them. Of 'home.'" He caught her eye. "Is there no part of you that wishes to return to yours?"

Tony ran her tongue over her chapped lips as she thought. He waited. Why do you care, she wanted to ask. Why is this such a big deal to you? Why are you the only one asking me things like this?

Perhaps some of her confusion came across in her expression, because Cullen leaned forward and planted his elbows on his knees. "The Circles were prisons," he said, breaking the silence with his quiet voice. "I was a jailer. When I joined the Inquisition, I vowed to never be a jailer again." He looked up and caught her eye once more. "Do you feel you are a prisoner here? Please." His eyes were dark with pain. "I must know."

She was shocked by the urge to comfort him, by how strong it was. He always looked to be on the border between duty and misery. Honorable, Cassandra had said. Were honorable men always this sad?

Tony swallowed, gathered the breath that had left her, and confessed, "Sometimes. Not often, but I... I miss knowing things. I miss... You know, I used to consider myself to be pretty knowledgeable about stuff, but I'm starting from scratch here. I'm--I guess you'd say a 'civilian.'" She made the air quotes with her fingers. "And you've said your job is--part of your job is to keep me safe, but I don't really see how that's possible." She bit her lip. She was so tired. Perhaps honesty would grant her peace. "Look--I'm stuck closing the rifts. If I'd been given a choice, I wouldn't have volunteered for it, but here we are. I wouldn't have chosen living up in the mountains, either, or learning how to stab people--you're right, I hate it--but there's no point in wishing for things to be different. That's not... that's never been how life works, for me." She shrugged. "It's not a problem, per se, because it can't be solved. Logically, it doesn't matter, because there isn't an alternative. All I can choose is how I respond to shit, and I--honestly, Cullen, I don't understand why that bothers you." She smiled at him, feeling her eyes burn with the sleep she needed but could not manage. "California's the same. Everywhere's the same. At least here, I can do something worth doing."

He looked out ahead of him, as if the floor would hold an answer he liked more.

"Let me ask you this," she said. "How can you be certain that being the Commander of the Inquisition is any better than being a Templar for the Chantry?"

He gave it a few moment's consideration. "I'm not," he finally said.

"You're not certain," she agreed. "Because nobody is. You told me that, in battle, we don't have the luxury of guarantees, and you were right about that, too. Because we never have that luxury. None of us know enough to be sure about anything; sometimes, if we're lucky, we have enough information to make a good guess." She examined him. "You said you missed your family, sometimes. What makes you think I have one?"

This seemed to shock him out of his thoughts. "You--but you've mentioned you are the eldest of your siblings."

"Half siblings," she said. "Four of them, at least ten years younger than me. I wasn't a sister so much as a maid." She pushed her hair out of her face. "You've been operating on the assumption that I have a home to go back to, Commander." Hopefully, her smile wasn't the grimace it felt like. "I don't know what you've been imagining, but trust me when I say I'd be more useful here than there."

"Useful," he repeated. He seemed almost dazed. "Is that all you want?"

She squinted at him. "What else is there?"

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Cullen was the first to break eye contact. "Maker's breath," he swore. "Josephine said you were practical."

"I don't pay rent," she said. "Josephine gives me enough money for food and things. I didn't buy any of these clothes, and Leliana said she would get me even nicer ones. What exactly is the problem?"

He released an enormous sigh. "I suppose there isn't one," he said, sounding defeated and almost sarcastic. "I'd only hoped... If there had been a problem, I would have liked to help. As it stands, it's clear that you're perfectly happy."

Tony tried to examine everything she'd said, hoping to figure out what had irritated him, but came up short. "I didn't say that."

"No," he agreed, and stood. "You didn't."

Her eyes narrowed further. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He'd summoned the energy to snap, that time. "Forgive my imposition, my Lady. Goodnight." He stood, beginning to turn away from her.

Tony was tired, and her impulse control was at a low ebb. When she reached out and grabbed his coat, it took her a whole second to realize why he'd suddenly gone still.

As soon as she found words again, she said, "Don't do that."

He looked down at her with naked surprise. "What?"

"Don't talk like that and then leave," she said. "You're the one who wanted to talk, you big idiot. Why are you angry?"

"Release me," he said, annoyance clear in his voice.

"No." She gripped his coat further. The two of them looked ridiculous; Cullen's knees were still somewhat bent, and she was clinging to him like a needy toddler. "Are you mad at me?"

"You--" He tugged at his coat. Tony slid an inch along the pew, her wool coat almost frictionless on the varnished wood. "Andraste preserve me."

"Are you worried about me?" That seemed to be the most likely possibility. "Because you don't have to be. I'm fine."

"You're ridiculous," he grumbled.

"That too." She nodded to the seat he'd vacated. "Sit down."

Acting as though it were some great sacrifice, Cullen sat. Tony didn't yet let go of him, not trusting that he'd stick around. He glared at her, handsome face stubborn. Tony decided that he must have at least one older sibling to be able to summon up that perfectly mulish expression.

Tony didn't smile, but she was a little amused. "Tell me why you're angry."

"I'm not angry," he said, angrily. At her raised eyebrow, he sighed. "It's only that I don't understand you." He looked at her right in the eye, as if that brief explanation could possibly have been enough. When she didn't say anything, he continued, irritated and haggard. "Sometimes you seem like you haven't a care in the world, and others, you're seconds from tears, and I don't know why. It would make things far easier if you would just explain."

She had to bite back a smile. "Is that how you think people work?"

He drew back, insulted. "I--no. It's not nearly so simple, but it's--can't you try?"

This shouldn't be charming. Tony shouldn't be smiling at him, encouraging this unhinged behavior, but it was almost impossible not to. She wondered if this was anything like how he'd felt, seeing her hold a dagger that first lesson. His approach to heart-to-heart conversations reminded her of a fawn on an icy lake. Perhaps if it were some saner hour, she wouldn't be so near to laughing.

"What," he growled, not exactly in question. It was hard to tell in the yellow candlelight, but she thought he was blushing.

"Sorry." She took her hand back, lacing her fingers together in her lap. "Gimme a second. I can try." She waited until he nodded, and then attempted--no doubt fruitlessly--to explain. Where to begin? "When I came to Thedas... or, right before, I was..." She swallowed and gathered her thoughts. "I was alone in my apartment. It was over a convenience store--just... you know, sundries. Snacks. Anyway, it was in a not-great part of town. I had... well, I was listening to music, so I couldn't hear the outside super well. I walked by the window, and..."

The crash of glass. A thud in her chest, as if suddenly stabbed. Heat, then the loud-yet-distant sound of her falling to the floor. Burning pain, then cold, then nothing. Then...

"I got shot," she said. "Someone was robbing the store, and the cops came, and they shot through the window and they killed me." She was frowning into the middle distance, the pulpit a vague brown shape before her. "And then I woke up here, and now I see--I see dead bodies all the time, and I... I never had, before." She heard Cullen swallow. "I don't know. I guess... maybe I'm just--I'm trying to make sense of all of it, but I can't do that and learn everything I need to learn for the Inquisition, so I... picked the Inquisition. To focus on that, first." She shrugged. "Maybe that was stupid of me. What..." She turned to face him again. "What do you think?"

"Antonia," he said, and took her hand.

He was warm even through the leather of his gloves. She looked down and noticed that her fingers were streaked with blood, her nails sticky with it, cuticles a mangled mess. She'd picked them apart. When had that happened?

"Whoops," she said.

He said nothing, but kept one of her hands between his, keeping her from hurting herself. She wished she could apologize to him, but she didn't know why she should. For getting blood on him, maybe? As if there weren't blood on him constantly, in this magical hell world?

"Forgive me," he said, almost a whisper. "I did not know what I was asking."

"No worries, dude," she said, still floating and indistinct. "It's nice that you give a shit."

"Of course I--of course." The world seemed to pause around them. He took one breath, then another. She looked at him, wondering for what must have been the hundredth time what his deal was. Why he was here with her in this not-quite-a-church at sparrow's fart in the morning when he could have been anywhere else. He looked away and then back, and the brief respite from his honey-colored eyes only served to draw attention to them once more. "I... if you would..." He exhaled, almost in a laugh. "I really am quite bad at this, aren't I?"

She felt herself smile, and a heartbeat later felt the happiness associated with it. "Whatever it is, just ask. I don't mind."

Still, he hesitated. His shoulders were tense when he finally said, "I'd like to know how to be kind to you."

As if shoved, Tony was back in her body. She felt his hands on her hand, his eyes on her face, his boot an inch away from hers. Adrenaline ran through her, and her fingers throbbed in pain for the first time since she'd started bleeding. He was kind; he was being kind, that's all. He couldn't possibly know that he'd just said the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to her.

He must have sensed part of her panic, because Cullen's hands faltered. He opened his mouth to speak, possibly to apologize, and Tony blurted, "Do you want to be my friend?"

He blinked at her, bewildered.

Tony pushed forward. "I'd like to be yours. If that's okay." She was astonished by her own fumbling, and cleared her throat. "In, uh, ordinary circumstances, I wouldn't just ask like a five-year-old, but I don't know how else to know, and also, It's cool if you don't want to. I recognize that I can be pretty eccentric."

For some reason, that made him scoff, a laugh hidden inside. He shook his head as if to clear his mind. "Yes, my Lady," he said. "I would like to be your friend."

"Cool," said Tony. "Cool." She looked down at her hand--their hands, his around one of hers. Her blood had gone from simmering to cold. "I, uh. I think I'm crashing." He hummed a confused sound, so she said, "I'm not gonna faint, but I'm close."

"Maker's breath," he said. She wondered for the first time exactly how rude that expression was meant to be.

"Time for sleep, I think," she said. She made to stand--or at least, in her brain, she tried to stand. Her legs remained exactly where they were. "Here we go," she said.

Without asking for permission, Cullen pulled her up by their joined hands. In a way that was unfortunately becoming routine, he marched her out of the Chantry, supporting her shoulder so she didn't stumble. She assumed that they said their goodnights; as soon as it happened, the memory melted away. By the time she finally stopped the spinning of her thoughts enough to sleep, the sun was lighting up the sky, changing it from black to blue. She buried her face into her pillow and willed the world to pause again, if only so she could solve the puzzle of her own emotions.

-

The next few days in Haven were deceptively peaceful. Somehow, she was learning how to block with that dagger of hers, reading the angle of Cullen's arm and knowing which way to move. Josephine'd dug up a few volumes about dwarven politics, and Tony started to learn the calligraphic script dwarves favored over Trade runes. One morning, Tony woke to a knock on her door and saw Leliana with a wooden box in her arms.

"Good morning, Herald," said Leliana, addressing Tony's unruly hair instead of Tony's face. "Could you spare an hour, this morning?"

Tony stepped back, allowing Leliana in. "If it gets me out of training with Cullen, you can have two."

"I have already informed him that you may be late," she said. She put the box on Tony's desk and opened it, revealing its contents: clothes, some of which in those jewel tones she'd mentioned before the Storm Coast. "Donations have arrived from Orlais; I held these aside for you."

"Thanks," said Tony, mostly because she figured she should. She closed the door and examined the box, pulling out a thin white dress. "Uh."

"A chemise," said Leliana. She seemed amused. "If you would like, I could show you how to wear it."

The worry that had begun to surface in Tony's mind was swept away, and she smiled. "Thank you," she said, actually sincere this time.

She took off the big shirt she used to sleep in and let Leliana set out an outfit for her. It was warmer in the cabin than it was outside, but that wasn't saying much, and she immediately burst out in goosebumps. Tony kept her smallclothes and added that linen chemise, a kind of thin shift that rested against her skin like an undershirt. She had several chemises now, actually--it seemed that she was meant to change it out more regularly than her other clothes, to keep laundry at a sensible minimum. Shivering, she looked to Leliana to see what was next.

The Spymaster had what looked to be a corset in her hands. Tony sighed, and Leliana looked up. "You do not wish for stays?"

Tony wished for a sports bra, in all honesty. She would have even taken an underwire, at this point. "How, uh... severe is it?" She rubbed her hands along her arms, trying not to shiver. "Corsets have a bad reputation, where I'm from."

Leliana frowned. "Women prefer to bounce?" Tony was caught between two jokes, and hesitated in replying. Leliana pushed on, saying, "Please try it. If you dislike it, we will find different smalls for you."

Once it was laced up, Tony could admit that it wasn't so bad. It wasn't nearly as dramatic as she'd expected; apparently, the current Orlesian style was more of a long cone shape, not the hourglass Tony had been fearing. She rolled her shoulders and swung her arms, getting used to the feel of it. The boning was slightly flexible--made of actual bones, said Leliana--but still kept things secure. No wonder everyone in Haven had such good posture.

"A 'bad reputation,'" muttered Leliana, helping her lace it up. "How do they wear gowns? How do they dance? Is the weight of the silk and velvet entirely on their shoulders?"

"I don't know what to tell you," said Tony. "Maybe that's why I'm so short."

The next few pieces were more recognizable. The long tunic was made of something Leliana called "wincey," a rough-spun blend of linen and wool that kept in the warmth beautifully. The leggings were thick and lined with a sort of fine fur, the impossible cross between shearling and microfiber. The boots were by far the most impressive, to Tony; she took a moment to simply admire them, feeling the give of the leather in her hands.

When she looked up at Leliana, she was surprised to see her smiling. "Do you like them?"

"Of course I like them," said Tony, amazed at how light they were in comparison to how strong they felt. "I've never had boots this nice."

Leliana held out her hand, and Tony offered her one. With the confidence of Cullen explaining a feint, she began to explain the shoe. "We are far from Antiva," she said, "and so Antivan leather was an impossibility--I wouldn't have you ruin Antivan boots in the mud of the Hinterlands, regardless. Still, the cut is close; do you see the curve of the counter, how it fades into the sole? The leather is treated to remain rigid in even the wettest climate, and will support the arches of your feet to keep fatigue at bay. The heel is not so high as to change your gait, but it grips a stirrup well. And the collar is softer than the rest, just here. You can bend at the knee without any pinching." She returned the boot to Tony. "Try them on. I want to see."

They were perhaps a size too large, but her leggings and socks were thick enough to make up for the difference. She walked in place a bit, getting used to the heeled sole. They were comfortable, but gave her the feeling of wearing shinguards. They were strong enough that she could consider them armor, she realized; Varric preferred to wear leathers instead of plate, and no one said he was underdressed for battle.

Leliana helped Tony into a druffalo hide jerkin with a stiff, high collar. It offered her neck protection from both the cold and, she hoped, an opponent's blade. They had reached the bottom of the box, and Tony could see a pair of leather gloves, a silk coin purse, and a few straps of leather--belts, maybe? She reached for the purse first, confused by how small it was. She couldn't hope to keep her money and her inkwell in there.

"A fret," said Leliana. "They are old-fashioned, but I thought the drawstring would be useful to you." At Tony's blank look, Leliana held out her hand. "Allow me."

When Leliana stepped behind Tony and began to unweave her sloppy braids, Tony realized that a fret must be some sort of hairnet. It did simplify matters considerably--Leliana coiled up Tony's hair into one long rope, then shoved it all inside, securing it with the aforementioned drawstring and a small wooden comb. When Leliana was finished, Tony shook her head around, testing it out. The metal aglets at the ends of the string clicked together, but the style stayed in place.

Leliana breathed a sigh of what sounded like relief. "There," she said. Finally, she implied.

Tony laughed. "Was it really bothering you that much?"

"Yes," she said, softening her annoyance with an added, "my Lady."

One of the straps was a belt, but the other seemed to be one long suspender, metal clasps on both ends. Leliana attached the spine of Tony's journal to the strap, making it into a kind of book-purse. Tony'd seen mages carry spellbooks like that, but she hadn't known it could be an option for her.

Tony pulled on the gloves. They weren't fingerless, but the leather was so thin and supple, Tony could easily see herself holding a quill with them on. Her left hand flickered with green as she shoved it into the glove, as if protesting being covered so often.

It caught Leliana's eye. It tended to be eye-catching; thus, gloves. She said, "Is it painful?"

"Sometimes," she said, too distracted to be anything but honest. "Any luck, by the way?"

Leliana blinked and said, "Luck?"

Tony paused. She looked up from her now-covered hands and saw a subtle, instantaneous shift in the Spymaster. The woman who delighted in shoes was gone, and in her place was a cold, calculating woman who made her living in lies. If Tony had glanced up even a second later, she would have missed the change entirely.

"Not yet," said Leliana, just as Tony said, "You never even tried, did you?"

It had been a ruse. Of course it had been; only Tony had ever imagined the mark could be removed and given to someone else. It had been easy to let Tony get distracted, simple to let her believe that Leliana was investigating the problem. Leliana didn't trust Tony when they first met, and she clearly didn't trust her now. Maybe, for Leliana, trust was just another tool of her trade.

Leliana sighed, crossing her arms and leaning against the desk. She didn't protest, but neither did she apologize. She simply remained there, waiting for Tony's reaction with all the passion of someone waiting for the bus.

The first time someone had told Tony that they were "not mad, just disappointed," she'd wanted to laugh in their face. At that time in her life, anger had been her constant companion. It was always her first instinct, and she did her best to swallow it down or shove it aside. Here, in the comfort and privacy of this little cabin, it felt more tempting than ever. She had been lied to, again. She'd been manipulated, again. Wasn't she right to be angry?

Tony took a deep breath, held it, and released it. "That's a shame," she said.

Leliana had no nervous habits. She didn't fiddle with anything, or shift her weight, or pick at her gloves. She simply waited.

"Maybe you thought I'd forgotten," offered Tony, hands on her hips, "but you should know by now that I don't forget things. Is there anything else I should know? Anything else you wanna confess?"

Leliana's face didn't move, but her eyes smiled. "No."

"Let me rephrase." Tony took a step forward. Leliana was leaning, but was still taller than Tony by a few inches. It was easy for Tony to fit into Leliana's personal space, their knees almost touching, their faces close enough that, if Leliana's skin had any scars or blemishes, Tony would have been able to see them. It didn't, though. Physically, she was flawless; it was the inside that was so infuriating. 

"If you ever," said Tony, "lie to me again, I'm gone." She watched as Leliana's eyes flicked over her own face, perhaps looking for a hint that Tony was bluffing. "I take my fancy new duds, and I leave. No more Herald, no more mark. Do you understand?"

No part of Leliana was smiling anymore. "You would leave the Veil as it is now?"

"Who knows?" Tony tilted her head. "You said you don't know me. Do you want to roll those dice?"

Tony watched Leliana breathe. Since her eyes had gone all hollow, it was the only sign that Leliana was alive.

When Leliana left the cabin, it wasn't in a rush. She walked out as casually as she had walked in, and even closed the door behind her. Tony collapsed onto her bed, releasing the breath that had been caught under her thumping, racing heart. She was angry, but knew her anger served no purpose. She'd said what she had to say. It was up to Leliana to make the next move. Tony was a political pawn, just as she'd always been.

Maybe more of a political rook, now. She had a few more bargaining chips these days than she did a month ago. She spent the day reviewing her journal, wondering what exactly she could manage, should push come to shove.

These thoughts were the ones that followed her into the next morning's meeting with Josephine. They're the ones that made her ask to see the contract the Ambassador had drawn up for the Chargers, and inspired her to make sure she understood every detail.

"The Iron Bull has also offered to help with the training of recruits," said Josephine. "Though it is not part of his formal responsibilities."

Tony smiled--anything that took something off of Cullen's plate was good news--but her mind was elsewhere. "He still needs to sign this, right? I can take it to him."

"If you like," said Josephine. She seemed pleased that Tony was taking an interest, which made Tony feel a flicker of regret--but she wasn't doing anything wrong, really. At least, not yet.

The Iron Bull was standing outside of the gates near the newly-reconstructed stables. The barbed wire seemed to be holding, and Tony could see Esmerelda the pregnant mare tossing her head as she paced the paddock. Threnn hadn't tried to crucify Tony, so either Threnn didn't know of her involvement, or the situation hadn't escalated quite as high as she'd feared.

"Good morning, The Iron Bull," she said. "Can you walk with me, for a second?"

He tilted his head, along with his enormous rack of horns. "Sure thing."

They wandered along the outside of Haven's walls, Tony taking three strides for every one of Bull's. She aimed them for the logging stand, but only because it was the first destination that came to mind. Privacy was difficult to find in a town this small.

"I'm curious," said Tony. "Do you already know what I'm going to ask you about?"

He huffed a laugh. "I'm not a mind reader."

"And that's not an answer."

"Sometimes," he said, "when someone wants me alone like this, it turns into a sex thing."

Tony snorted. "Don't get your hopes up."

"They weren't. I've got a thing for redheads, you've got a thing for blonds--easy," he said, catching her arm so that she didn't trip and fall. "Ground's icy," he said, as if that was why she'd faltered.

"Fuck's sake," said Tony, thoroughly rattled. And he said he wasn't a mind reader?

They reached the logging stand and Bull turned to her, massive arms crossed over massive chest. "So," he said. "What's up, Boss?"

Tony held the contract in front of her with both hands. She'd read it through twice, going over her options in her head. The document was full of legal frippery and words like "herein," but the gist was, the Chargers would work for the Inquisition for a year, after which the contract would be reviewed. It could be terminated by either party should A, B, or C happen. It mentioned the Ben-Hassrath reports, and what the Inquisition expected Bull to cut out, leave in, and obfuscate. It also had a blank space on the third page of five, barely big enough for a line of added handwritten text.

"I know how much the Chargers cost," said Tony. "But what do you charge, The Iron Bull?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Depends on who's asking for what."

"I'm not strong," she said. "I'm not powerful, and I'm absolute garbage at protecting myself. I agree with what the Inquisition is doing, but I'm... that could change."

His other eyebrow raised.

"And if it does," she continued, "I don't want to be thrown in a dungeon again. I want to be able to walk out of here and not be followed. I want--I need to have that option." She held up the contract. "This outlines what you and your people would do for the Inquisition, and how much the Inquisition would pay you for those things. I want to add a stipulation, and I want to know if you'd be open to that."

Bull rumbled in thought, looking her up and down with his keen eye. "What's got you so scared?"

"How long do you have?" She flipped to the third page and pulled out a quill. "I want to add that you're my bodyguard, and you answer specifically to me, not the Inquisition. You'll stay on the Inquisition's payroll, and everything else stays the same. Hopefully, this will never come up, but overall, I don't put too much stock in hope." Tony hesitated, then added, "If this is a professional conflict of interest, or--"

"It's not that," he said. "It's just... messy." He nodded to the papers in her hands. "Your Ambassador's gonna review that contract. So's your Spymaster. If you're trying to set up a failsafe, this isn't the way to go."

Tony sighed. "It's all I could think of."

He rumbled again. After a moment, he said, "How much coin do you have on you?"

She blinked up at him. "Coin?" He nodded, and she gave him the contract to hold as she reached for her purse. He looked it over as she fumbled, eventually surfacing with two gold, three silver, and a single copper piece. Tony held it up in one hand.

With surprising delicacy, Bull plucked one of the gold coins from her palm. "Consulting fee," he said. He took the other: "Guarantee of discretion." He took two silvers, pinching them between his finger and thumb, and said: "Hiring fee." He considered the final silver and copper, but shook his head. "Keep that for lunch."

Intrigued, Tony put the remains of her savings in her pocket. "Well?"

"Let me see your journal for a sec."

She pulled the strap over her head and offered him the book. It looked like a child's toy in his hands, but he flipped to a blank page without issue. Tony held up her bottle of ink and he loaded up the quill, scribbling something before handing it back. Tony was surprised to see that she now had Bull's autograph. She was less surprised to see that he'd given the Trade runes little horns.

"There," he said. "Off the Inquisition's books, but official anyway. Anyone in the Inquisition tries to kill you, I step in. Sound good?"

Tony was astounded. "Really? You don't need--I mean, Josephine's contract is five pages long."

"Josephine likes to write," he said. "It makes her feel safe. I don't need that crap." He smiled. "If it makes you feel better, I could doodle something. I'm good at dragons."

She stared down at her journal, watching the ink dry. Could it really be that simple? When she looked up again, Bull looked effortlessly casual, as if he did this cloak-and-dagger shit all the time. Tony supposed that he did, being a spy, but it still managed to surprise her.

"Thank you," she said. She'd thought this would take an argument, and instead he was just smiling at her. She smiled back and added, "for what I assume was a massive discount."

"Oh, yeah," he said. "You owe me at least a dozen drinks."

Chapter Text

For a few days, Haven was peaceful. There were more beds for the Chantry, more metals for the blacksmith, more herbs for the potions master. For the first time ever, Cullen was the one to cancel a morning's practice. Upon investigation, Tony saw that Rylen was drilling the soldiers for once.

Tony asked, "Is he sick?"

"Sure," he said, barely containing a grin. At Tony's continued confusion, he nodded to his right.

Refugees from Ferelden had a certain look to them. After the war with Orlais, the Fifth Blight, and now the appearance of rifts, they trudged through the snow to Haven without much complaining. The Maker had turned away from all of His faithful, but apparently He had a particular contempt for Ferelden.

These ladies were not from Ferelden. They were wearing masks, for one thing, and long skirts with the hems pinned up a few inches from the muck. Their hats were fashionably tilted, pinned to hair that shone with health. They were tittering. Fereldans, in Tony's experience, rarely tittered.

"Ah," said Tony.

"A 'tactical retreat,'" said Rylen. "Not that I mind this. Training's the fun bit."

Tony couldn't hide her surprise. "Is it?"

"Beats paperwork." There did appear to be something more in Rylen's manner than just amusement at Cullen's situation, a sort of lightness. Satisfaction, maybe. Tony still felt she knew nothing about the Templars, but maybe the high-ranking ones needed to be instructors as well as commanders. It felt nice to believe that; she hoped it was true.

After fetching tea, she walked straight to Cullen's tent. It was set just a hair farther away from its neighbors than the others in its row, and she'd never seen it without the lamp lit inside. "Knock knock," she announced.

The shuffling of papers. "Lady Antonia?"

"You decent?" She scratched at the flap. "I brought caffeine."

He started a few sentences, sighed, then said, "I'd say 'come in,' but there isn't room, exactly."

Tony poked her head in. Cullen was right; if he'd organized things even slightly less efficiently, there'd be no room for him to stand. As it was, he was cross-legged on his cot, a writing board in his hand, stacks of parchment and sealed letters neatly arranged by his knees. Tony held out the teacup, and Cullen leaned and reached, able to accept it without getting up.

He asked, "Did you need something?--And, thank you."

"Question," she said. "The Orlesians by the woodcutting station."

Cullen scowled and swallowed a sip. "Is that a question?"

"Thing is," she continued, "the blonde one? Even with a mask, she's easily an eight out of ten. Are you sure you wanna stay in here?"

His expression shifted, less annoyed and more befuddled. "Eight out of... what?"

Tony shrugged a shoulder, smile going crooked. "I've got this thing, where I notice how beautiful women are. It's called eyesight."

Cullen didn't quite choke on his tea, but the next sip was more of a struggle than it should have been. He put the cup down, clearing his throat. "Busy," he said. "That is--I am. And--regardless, I hardly think that would be an... appropriate... use of my time."

"Do you want them gone?"

"What, from Haven?" He fiddled with the string on a letter. "Of course not. They are here seeking shelter. It would be--I wouldn't turn them away from the safety of the Inquisition."

Tony moved further into the tent, boots still outside but shoulders passing through. "But from the training grounds? I don't see any food in here." Or a chamber pot. How long had he been hiding? "And if enough runners come and go from this tent..." He grimaced, and that was enough of an answer for Tony. "Right. Hold tight, I've got a plan."

She backed out of the tent and let the flap fall closed, obscuring Cullen's surprised, "What?"

For whatever reason, there was an overabundance of not-quite-guitars in Haven. Maybe their original owners had passed away at the Conclave; maybe it was a traditional donation for Fereldans or Orlesians to make. Tony didn't know. What she did know was that they were the one thing that Threnn wasn't stingy about loaning out to people, and that Tony was herself more than competent at playing it, these days. She picked one up from the quartermaster, leaving behind only a promise to return it as collateral, then unwound the seventh string and walked out of Haven's gates.

The woodcutting stump was empty, axe squirreled away somewhere dry, and the line of Orlesian ladies was between it and the drilling soldiers. Tony brushed it clear of snow and took a seat, angling the not-guitar on her knee and plucking out a few notes as she got it in tune. A few faces looked over at her, but as they were masked, Tony couldn't tell if it was with curiosity or annoyance.

What kind of music would an Orlesian lady like? Well, considering these ones, something incredibly over-the-top romantic. She mentally ran through her catalog of memorized tunes, checking the lyrics to see if they would make sense--any mention of a telephone or radio was an immediate disqualification. Tony cleared her throat, fingers stretching out over the long, wide neck of the instrument. She didn't have a pick, so used the side of her thumb and her worn fingers. She was grateful that her cuticles had healed.

She never remembered the opening bit of this song. It certainly didn't help that she didn't speak the language. When Tony began, she launched right into the famous bit. "Quand," she sang, her naturally loud voice carrying over the snow, "il me prend dans ses bras..."

Every masked face turned to her, now. She smiled, taking in their finery. The tallest one had a hat that looked to sport a bunch of peacock feathers. Did peacocks exist in Thedas? She really needed a comprehensive report on local flora and fauna to read. She would punch a baby for a full set of encyclopedias.

"Il me parle tout bas, Je vois la vie en rose..."

Soon, she was hamming it up to the delight of the Orlesian ladies, all of whom were too distracted to notice a certain Commander dashing past with his arms full of reports. Tony didn't risk a glance over to him, but she smiled at the crunching sound of his near-run through the snow.

Not every problem was so easily solved, however. Later that day, Tony went to Harritt to talk about potentially commissioning a new weapon--a dueling sword, something light and whippy. She explained what she would like, and ended up getting a lecture instead.

"You want new steel, you need a hotter furnace," he said. "We don't have one of those. You want a blast furnace, you need limestone, which is scarce, and charcoal, which is expensive. You want to make your own charcoal, you need wood. Do you need me to tell you that we're short on wood, my Lady, or did building a fence out of wire drive that point home for me?"

She shifted from foot to foot. "And by 'need,' you mean... need? As in, 'absolutely impossible, otherwise'?"

He pulled off a forge-blackened glove and rubbed his face with his red, chapped hand. "Maker preserve me, Your Worship, even if I did have the materials, forging a new sword from the ingot takes months."

Tony heaved a sigh and ended up coughing on smoke for her trouble.

"Broadswords, longswords, mauls, maces--I'd be happy to make you any of those," he said, looking anything but happy at the prospect. "Bring me a saber ready-made, and I'll customize it for your height and reach, but making a one-handed steel dueling sword in the middle of the mountains? I don't know whether to be flattered by your faith or baffled by your question."

"'Baffled,' clearly," she said. "But you're welcome for the compliment, Master Harritt."

"Your Worship!"

Tony blinked and turned, mouth already open to ask for a different title. When she saw who it was, she let go of her frustration entirely. "Martin," she said, smiling. "Hey."

He looked like a chimney sweep out of Mary Poppins; soot in his hair, ash on his face, smile wide and bright. His arms were full of metal rods, and in his haste to put them by the forge, one almost dropped on his foot.

Stepping back from both Harritt and the forge, Tony said, "How's smithing treating you?"

Martin's brilliant smile made him look younger than the fifteen years she'd initially assumed. He was practically bouncing on his heels. "Oh I'm not a smith, really," he gushed, "I'm only just starting out, and Master Harritt is very particular, you know, but he lets me work the bellows and I keep the tools clean and look, look at these--"

Tony listened, barely following as Martin pointed out every tool hanging on the walls. She recognized the hammers and tongs, but that was about it, and when she confessed to her ignorance Martin began quizzing her.

"This one," he said, hefting a half-round hammer in his blackened hands. "Do you know this one?"

"I do now," she said, barely containing her laugh. "You've just said it's a fuller."

He nodded, solemn and satisfied. "Or a creaser," he added, seemingly unable to help himself.

"Which is used to spread out the iron," finished Tony.

Martin looked up at her, suddenly nervous. "Your Worship, is it true... do you really remember everything you're told?"

That was a new one on Tony. There were plenty of rumors about her, most of which had been vetted and spread by Josephine or Leliana, and she knew about those. This one seemed to be a little more organic. She shrugged. "I try to," she said. "Don't you?"

He nodded, eyes wide. "But you... Can you..." He gestured to the wall of tools to his left. "Not just the hammer and tongs?"

Tony shook her head, amused. He looked so earnest, though, so young, and she didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't actually that impressive to memorize things you were just told. She pointed to the upper-right corner of the wall, and began to read the tools like words on a page. "Tongs," she said, "tongs, tongs, hand-bellows, hand-bellows, all of those are hammers, then sledge hammers, then fullers--or, yes, creasers--those are swages, swage block one, swage block two, whetstones in order of grit, that's the rough one, that's the fine one, that's where the woodcutter's axe lives when I'm not using it to middling effect," she took a breath, "punches, those are drifts, nails, those are more barbs for the fences, iron ingots, then down there we have sorted fullering jigs and specialty odds and ends you didn't explain, in the barrels there's water, that has quenching oil, and in the crates, bear hide, ram leather, nugskin, drakestone, iron ore, onyx, summer stone, and..." She squinted. "I don't know what that is."

When she looked up, Martin's mouth was hanging open. The sounds of hammering metal had stopped. Master Harritt looked surprised behind his mustache.

Tony did her best to ignore it, but she felt her cheeks heat. "Martin, do you know what it is? That stone?"

"Serpentstone, Your Worship," cut in Harritt. "From the Storm Coast. We only got it in today."

"Serpentstone," she repeated. Then, she shrugged, giving Martin a small smile. "Do I pass?"

"How do you do that," he demanded. "Did you already know when I told you?"

Tony shook her head. "Of course not. That would be--I'm not trying to trick you, this is just how my brain works." Martin crossed his arms, looking deeply unconvinced. Tony rolled her eyes. "It's my job to know things, Martin."

He squinted at her. "But how?"

"It's..." She gave a clipped sigh and pointed to the tools again. "I already knew about bellows, tongs, and hammers. Building from that, you've got sub-types of hammers, then the things you use the hammers on, and then the things you make with the hammers. If you break it up like that, it's not a dozen things to learn, it's--it's three groups of four things to learn, kind of. And if a word is totally new, I link it to something else I know already. 'Swage' sounds like 'wage,' and that big swage block looks like it'd be expensive. That's all it is."

"But how do you do it so fast?"

"Practice?" Martin let out a pained sigh, and Tony smiled. "No one likes that answer. Anyway, once I write it all down, I'll remember for longer. Needless to say, I'm incredibly annoying in an argument."

Martin looked chagrined at the thought, while Harritt snorted, bringing up his hammer again. Tony gave Martin a gentle punch in the arm, said her goodbyes, and turned to leave. 

Tony heard a clatter, metal on metal, and jumped in surprise. She whipped back around, instantly concerned for Martin--and then froze.

Martin was holding his hands away from his body, fingers spread and elbows locked, shoving away some invisible force. Suddenly, the force became visible: lightning, thin threads of it crackling between his fingertips and racing up his arms. The blue-purple heat of it zapped the moisture from the air, forks of storm jumping out and away from his palms. At his feet, the metal bars he had been attempting to move, but had dropped with that frightening noise. 

"Andraste preserve us," breathed Harritt. His knuckles had gone white on his hammer.

"Please," begged Martin, eyes wide. "Please. It--it was an accident."

"Martin," said Tony, barely keeping her voice level. Knowing the names of all those metal tools would not stop them from conducting electricity, nor from setting the walls on fire. She brought her own hands up, palms facing outward, just as his were. "Martin, calm down."

"Please," he said again, voice cracking along with the lightning. "Don't send me away, I didn't mean to."

Tony swallowed, wishing the smell of ozone were better masked by the smoke. "It's okay, Martin," she said, uncertain of whether or not she was lying. "Just breathe."

What good was her memory, really? What good was it, remembering that Martin had arrived at Haven alone, that he'd specifically modified his voice to make him sound older? A dozen stories immediately sprang to the front of her mind, stories of families throwing out their children when their powers manifested, of families trying to hide their magical children and ending up dead in a house fire. Tony tried to keep the panic from rising in her heart, but Martin--God, when his face was contorted in misery like that, there was no mistaking him for a fifteen-year-old anymore.

"Herald," said Harritt, eyes nearly as wide as Martin's. "What do we do?"

Purple lightning snapped between Martin's hands, the brightness of the light leaving stars in Tony's vision. She said, "Put down the hammer. Get out of here, Harritt."

"But, Your Worship--"

"Go," she snarled. "Get a Templar."

Martin burst into tears, unable or unwilling to bring his hands close to wipe his face. Harritt cursed, tossing his hammer onto the anvil and setting out for the drilling soldiers at a sprint.

"It's going to be okay," said Tony, trying for soothing. "Just breathe. Can you stop the--can you stop it, Martin?"

He shook his head, static making his hair strange and wild. "I'm sorry," he sobbed through clenched teeth. "I'm sorry, I can't, it won't stop. Please don't send me away, I--I have nowhere else to go."

"That's fine," she lied, forcing a smile onto her face. "It's fine, Martin, just hang on."

Seconds crawled by. The magic seemed to shift out and around him, forming a barrier similar to what Solas would cast around her in battle. Tony couldn't come any closer to him without risking getting shocked, so she relied on meaningless platitudes, wishing that she could hug him, could cover his eyes from the magic that was upsetting him so much. Somehow, the tears on Martin's cheeks didn't seem to conduct the electricity.

The sound of running in armor, the heavy fall of boots on snow, and finally, Ser Rylen swearing, "Andraste's tits."

Tony didn't turn to see what Rylen did--whether it was a gesture or something else--but she suddenly felt as though she were inside of a heavily soundproofed room. She blinked and swallowed, trying to free her ears from the sudden pressure. The odd sensation only distracted her until the storm around Martin dissipated, the light immediately quenched like a candle under a tidal wave. His eyes rolled back, his knees buckled, and had Tony not instantly run forward to catch him, he would have dashed his head against the side table.

Ser Rylen stepped through the doorway. "Lady Antonia, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she bit out, lowering Martin's limp body to the floor. "Help me."

They managed to get Martin's unconscious form out of the smith and summoned a healer. Tony stepped back and hid behind the outer wall by the barrels, hands over her face, trying to focus on her breathing.

After a moment, Rylen appeared, floating just a foot away from her, hand outstretched but never quite landing on her shoulder. "Were you hurt?"

"I said I was fine," she snarled, lowering her shaking hands and glaring at him with wet eyes. "What the fuck did you do?"

Rylen's eyebrows raised. "Nullified his magic. It--it's not meant to hurt."

"What does that mean, Knight-Captain?" She wiped her face of tears, furious with herself for crying, furious with herself for what she'd done. "That it doesn't hurt, or that it isn't supposed to but does anyway?"

He didn't appear to know what to say. He fell into an eerily familiar posture, hands loose but shoulders tense. It took her a moment to recognize it as something she'd seen Cullen adopt when uncomfortable. How many quirks of Cullen's were going to turn out to be a holdover from his Templar days?

Tony took a shaky breath. "There are no more Circles," she said, voice hoarse. Where would she have gone, in his shoes? Farther into the mountains to starve? Raiding around the Hinterlands, only to be slaughtered by a rogue Templar? Far-flung Tevinter, where a human mage without skill was just as likely to be a slave as an elf? "He was right. There is nowhere else for him to go." 

Rylen simply looked at her, eyes large but jaw set. She wanted to scream at him-- What are we going to do? --But she knew he wouldn't have that answer. Maybe no one did.

She swallowed, throat clicking, and shook her head. "Sorry," she said. "Forgive me. Thank you, Ser." She felt hollow. "All you did was what I asked of you."

"Herald," he said. Clearly, he was still unsettled.

God save her from awkward Templars. "Make sure the healer knows what happened," she said, not in the mood for pleasantries. "If there's anything I can do, find me. I need to talk to--just, someone. I need to talk to someone about this." She stumbled away from her poor hiding place, wiping the tears roughly from her face as she walked toward Haven's gates.

She breathed as she walked, trying to get her thoughts in any semblance of order. Her ears were still ringing from Rylen's counter-magic, making her slightly dizzy. She could still taste the ozone on her tongue, still smell the smoke on her clothes. Why had she done that? How could she have been so stupid? She didn't trust the Chantry, so why had she trusted their Templars to help Martin? She should have known Templar abilities would feel like that. She should have known, and she should have protected him. What kind of person couldn't protect a single child from their own fear?

Tony's feet stopped by the campfire, and she began to turn. I would like to listen, Cullen had said.

She scowled at the fire. She didn't want to talk to him about this. She had to solve this, not cry on his shoulder about how terrified and ignorant she still was. Tony squared her shoulders and walked, nearly marched, to the Chantry.

As soon as she entered, she was spotted by several people. She ignored them all and made the first left by the nearest pillar, whereupon she met with the calculating gaze of Madame de Fer.

"Lady Antonia, what an unexpected pleasure," said Lady Vivienne. Her eyes flicked up and down Tony's body. "I see you've dressed, today."

Tony almost asked, "as opposed to what," before remembering to whom she was speaking. "Yeah," she said instead. "Listen, can I talk with you for a second?"

"I'd be delighted."

They were in the middle of the Chantry, and Tony was hard-pressed to think of a place she wanted to be less. "My cabin? If that's okay."

Vivienne didn't raise an eyebrow or bat an eyelash. If Tony was being untoward or impolitic, she had chosen to ignore it for now. "Lead the way, my dear."

Tony didn't have multiple chairs in her cabin, so she offered the one she had to Vivienne and let herself pace. She wasn't physically shaking, but she still felt shaken, one hand over her mouth as she thought.

After a pause, Vivienne said, "Something has happened."

Tony snorted behind her hand before dropping it. "Yeah. And, what's worse, I have a favor to ask of you."

Vivienne tilted her elegant head an elegant few degrees. "I cannot guess to what you allude, Your Worship."

"Sure." Tony paused, then turned and sat on her bed, facing Vivienne. She put her elbows on her knees and twisted her fingers together. "Lady Vivienne," she started, then immediately stopped.

Vivienne didn't sigh, but the absence of a physical frustrated reaction did nothing to mask the annoyance coming off of her. "Please speak your mind, darling. We are both of us too busy to wait for the Maker to bless you with the perfect words."

"I'm sorry," said Tony. She said it with feeling, surprised to find that she meant it. "I'm sorry, my Lady, because I know the Inquisition isn't... it isn't what you maybe thought it would be, back at your chateau."

She smiled, the barest curve to her full lips, and said nothing.

"I'm not--I don't presume to know your thoughts, but..." Tony waved a hand around. "Haven isn't exactly Val Royeaux. I feel like I owe you something, for being here, and instead I'm just going to ask--when you were at the Circle, were you ever a teacher? Did you ever have students?"

Vivienne looked at Tony. Her dark brown eyes traveled from her boots all the way up to her hair, finally tamed and strangled by the fret. Her eyes were bright, but Tony couldn't make out what brightened them. Amusement? Scorn? "Lady Antonia," she said, an almost musical lilt to her voice, "whyever would you feel you owed me anything?"

Tony released a breath and let her shoulders slump. She went to pick at her cuticles, then realized she no longer had fingerless gloves. Maybe that's why Cassandra and Cullen would sometimes pick at their greaves; a nervous habit that couldn't be realized through the barrier of the leather. She ignored the question. "Just now, a boy I know revealed to me that he has magic, and he couldn't seem to control it. I called for a Templar, and..." Tony looked up, searching Vivienne's face for any sign of emotion. "Is it always like that?"

There was no emotion to find. Vivienne asked, "Like what, darling?"

"Brutal," Tony muttered. "Harsh, severe, instant." Cruel.

Vivienne hummed. "Perhaps you saw what the Templars call a Smite. It can be all of those things, though none of them are necessary. Which of our Templars calmed this boy's magic?"

"Knight-Captain Rylen." Tony frowned. "'Cast'? Like a spell?"

"How like you to pick up on verbage before concept," she said, almost smiling as she almost teased. "A Templar's abilities are designed to be a sort of 'anti-magic.' Like magic, they are summoned from within. Like magic, they are an act of will. Perhaps it would be easiest for you to imagine them as opposites."

So they weren't exactly opposites. Tony leaned back, part of her wondering if all mages defaulted to being condescending or if it was just Vivienne and Solas. "The boy--Martin--did Ser Rylen hurt him?"

"As I said, it was not necessary for him to do so. However, I was not there," she said. "Flattered though I am by your belief in my omnipotence, I do not know."

Tony wished she could find Vivienne funny. In an abstract way, she did, just as she found her gorgeous and brilliant. But there was this heavy aura around her, an almost psychic weight, and it robbed Tony of any positive feelings she might otherwise have had. Vivienne made her feel small and grubby, and nothing about this conversation led her to believe that was likely to change.

"Would you be able to teach him?" Tony asked. "Give him some sort of--Circle-adjacent education? Just enough to keep him safe from himself?"

This seemed to catch Vivienne's interest. "You would not rather entrust him to your apostate?"

Tony stood and began to pace again. She needed to do something that wasn't shouting at Vivienne for her casual disdain. "No," said Tony, feeling near the breaking point of her patience. "I need him out in the field, and he's..." She waved a hand, dismissing the many other reasons she might give. "Just, no."

In a perfect world, Tony would have absolutely asked Solas first. Ignoring that, in a perfect world, she wouldn't have to ask anyone for help with this at all, Vivienne was the logical choice for Martin. Solas' brilliance would probably not make up for his arrogance, or the facts that Martin was human, childish, and uneducated. People were scared of Solas. Tony figured Martin had been scared enough for this lifetime.

"I'd like for you to be the one to teach him, Madame," said Tony, finally coming to a stop. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to keep herself from fidgeting. "Would you, please?"

"So polite," said Vivienne, managing not to sound openly mocking. Her tone returned to its normal sardonic calm when she said, "Of course, my dear. It has been some time since I have trained another, but it is not beyond my capabilities."

Tony nodded, mostly to herself. "Thank you."

"My pleasure." She stood from the chair, giving the cabin a critical sweep of her gaze. "Doubtless the faithful find the ascetic nature of your lodgings inspiring."

Tony blinked. "That's a lot of words for 'boring.'"

Vivienne smiled. "Not 'boring,' perhaps, but certainly austere. Would a vase of flowers be so impossible to procure?"

There was a long, long list of things for Tony to learn. Interior design was not on that list. "Thanks again, Lady Vivienne," she said. "Shall I show you out? La porte is just over there."

Vivienne's eyes were definitely lit up with amusement, then. "Thank you, Lady Herald. I bid you adieu."

Just as Vivienne opened the door to leave, Tony burst out, "He wants to be a blacksmith." Vivienne turned, face blank. Tony worried her fingers. "Martin," she clarified. "He loves it, working at the forge. I--I don't want him to lose that."

Tony didn't know what Vivienne was seeing when she scrutinized her then. After a moment, Vivienne simply nodded once and left, letting the door fall closed behind her.

-

Tony did not sleep that night. She remained in her cabin, however. If she wandered the grounds, she would see the light coming from the inside of Cullen's tent, and she didn't want to be tempted to see him.

-

The next day, Tony left for the Hinterlands with Varric, Solas, and for the first time, The Iron Bull. She was curious to see him in action away from his Chargers, and curious about him in general. His kindness confused her, and she felt drawn in two directions; after he gave her his signature, she didn't know whether she trusted him more or less.

Leaving Haven was a relief until Tony noticed that Solas was acting distant again. She rode up next to him, daring him to urge his horse to go faster. He did not, but he did look straight ahead, ignoring her.

"Solas," she said.

Nothing.

"Hey, Solas."

"Yes, Herald?"

She grimaced at the title. "What did I do to make you angry? You only call me that when you're pissed."

"Nothing at all," he said, voice dangerous and light. "You did exactly what any human in Haven would have done. You saw a mage casting beyond his control, and you summoned a Templar to bring him down."

Tony exhaled through her nose. "He was hurting himself."

Solas glanced at her. He looked unimpressed. "And had he cut himself with a knife, who would you have summoned? Had he burned himself at the forge, what would you have done?"

She considered him. Though he was tense, his posture on his horse was perfect. He held the reins gently in his hands, and his back was straight in exactly the way Tony could never manage. For all that he was an outcast, a "hedgemage," he rode a horse like an Elizabethan aristocrat. It surprised her that he could be so knowledgeable about so many things, yet still not know how Tony felt at all. For all that he wanted to be her friend, he sure was assuming the worst of her at the moment.

Like a cat with its paw on a wine glass, she wanted to push. "Magic is different," she said.

Solas seemed to barely contain his anger. "He is a child," he said. "He was frightened. Your actions assured him that he was right to be so."

Did he truly find her this heartless? Tony, exhausted from a night tossing and turning over her guilt, asked, "What should I have done?"

"You were a teacher, Herald of Andraste, or so you have claimed. Have you never soothed an ill-tempered student, before?"

Her own anger flared. "He had lightning in his hands," she said, voice rising. "I've never had to talk down someone holding a weapon before. When would I have?"

Solas faced forward, expression firm. After a few minutes, Tony's patience withered. She was the one who urged her horse to speed up.

She ended up abreast with The Iron Bull, who was riding a horse that reminded her of Sir Destrian's monstrosity. Bull muttered, "Why do you let him talk to you like that?"

Tony huffed something similar to a laugh. "I don't know. I'm just... trying to figure him out, I guess."

"He's a prick," said Bull. "Mystery solved."

She snorted, but didn't explain. She had no idea if elves had superior hearing to humans, but had no reason to doubt it.

When they made camp for the night, she approached Solas as he unloaded his saddle bags from his horse. She asked, "Are you okay?"

He did not deign to look at her. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I already know," she said. "I can tell you're angry."

"You needn't concern yourself."

She released a hissing sigh. "Y'know, Solas," she said, barely keeping her annoyance on a leash, "sometimes you make it kind of hard to be your friend."

When he finally looked at her, his eyes were glazed. Were he physically a hundred miles away, he would not be more distant than he currently was. "You would prefer me unquestioning? Subservient, perhaps?"

If she hadn't been so irritated, she would have laughed. "Jesus fucking Christ."

He frowned. "You say that often."

"He was a martyr," sneered Tony. "You should know all about that."

"How can you--"

"I feel awful about what happened," she snapped. "What I did. If I'd known what a Templar would do to him, I never would have called for one. It was a mistake, Solas, and I'm sorry. Happy now?"

His lips thinned. "I am hardly happy."

"What a fucking surprise." She threw her hands up, dejected. "I mean, fuck, man, do you think I'm a monster? Martin was terrified. I thought I could help."

Solas stared at her.

After a long moment, she scoffed, turning away from him. "Whatever."

Dinner conversation was virtually nonexistent. She didn't want to talk to Solas, and Solas seemed to be pretending he was alone. Varric seemed subdued in Bull's presence, quietly eating his food without even joking about the tension. Bull sat next to Tony, offered to refill her bowl, but didn't say much at all beyond his pleases and thank yous.

Bull took first watch, and it didn't take long for Solas and Varric to retreat into their tents. Tony felt tired, but body-tired, nowhere near where she needed to be for falling asleep. She poked at the campfire with a long stick, watching orange flecks rise on the heat and then disappear.

"So," said Bull, sitting on the ground beside her, facing away from the fire. "Wanna talk?"

"No." She sighed, shoulders slumping. "Yeah. Yes. Maybe?"

She could feel his smile without seeing it. "Got it."

"He's an apostate," she said, feeling her heart start to ramp up the pace. "And he's an elf. He's practically tailored to be exactly the sort of person the Chantry would hate, but he's a genius, you know? He was the one who figured out the connection between the mark on my hand and the rifts. You--The Iron Bull, you asked why I 'let' him talk to me all pissy, but genuinely, how could I not?" She looked up and glared at his shoulder. "Can you imagine what would happen if I disagreed with him publicly in Haven? People think I'm the fucking Herald of Andraste."

Bull turned to look at her, face inscrutable. "You're worried about him."

"I'm terrified for him," she hissed, blinking as campfire smoke got in her eyes. "And I'm terrified for Martin, and I just--I don't understand how things are supposed to work when everyone has a weapon in their hands like this." She sighed, poking at the fire and watching a log fall. "It's not like he was wrong. Solas, I mean."

"But he still pissed you off."

"I..." She bit her lip. "I wanted... I dunno. I wanted him to think more of me, I guess. Or at least not assume the worst." It was more than she should have expected, clearly. She should know better than to hope for that sort of thing from others. "Stupid."

Silence. Light against the black dome of the night.

Bull shifted, telegraphing his intention to speak. The shadow of his horns was inky black against the star-laden sky. "Before all that," he said. "With the qithara. You're pretty good."

Tony blinked at him. "What?"

"That song." He brought up a hand and strummed an invisible instrument. "The Orlesian one. I'd never heard it before. Where'd you pick it up?"

It took Tony a few moments to understand what he was talking about. Crooning to the Orlesian ladies might as well have happened a decade ago. "La vie en rose," she said. "It's not actually--it's French, not Orlesian." She frowned. "Which you already know."

His face was barely visible from this angle, but she could tell he was smiling. "What makes you say that?"

"Back before we hired you, Josephine mentioned the Chargers tend to operate out of Orlais and Nevarra, and--hey." She squinted. "You're not testing me, are you? About where I'm from? Because if you are, just... don't."

He hummed, turning to face the night once more. "Sure." He leaned an inch to the side, his arm barely bumping her shoulder. "Still, though. Catchy."

"Yeah." She let her eyes go unfocused, staring at the fire. "That instrument, it's called a qithara?"

"In Qunlat." He shrugged. "You don't play it like one, though. Only six strings."

She rolled her eyes. "Jesus, you and details." 

"Ben-Hassrath," he reminded her, still with that grin.

After a pause, some internal dam broke, and Tony started to talk. "I can't do much," she said, "beyond closing rifts and playing the guitar. I should just--I need to remember that, and stick to it. I thought Templars were supposed to help mages, and now that I say that out loud, I know it must be a crock of shit. No one just 'helps' mages. They neutralize them, or kill them. I can only imagine what Circles were like, back when they existed." She rubbed her stinging eyes. "God damn it, I thought the Inquisition needed the Templars to close the Breach. I'm so fucking stupid. I should just keep my fucking mouth shut."

Bull shifted again, and Tony felt his hand engulf her shoulder.

"I can't do this," she said, voice lowered into a whisper. "I never could do this. I never should have gotten this fucking mark on my fucking hand." She managed a weak smile. "I don't suppose the Qunari know a way of removing weird magical markings from people?"

"An axe would do it," he said. "Any sort of blade, really."

"Bringing my talents down to zero." She glared at her left palm, the green light hidden by the glove. "No more hand, no more qithara."

Bull gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, then released it. 

Tony sighed. "Hey, The Iron Bull?"

"Yeah, Boss."

"If... okay, this is a stupid question," she warned, "but if you hadn't been ordered to join the Inquisition by the Qunari, would you still have wanted to? I just--I don't know what its reputation is like. We're just kind of making shit up as we go."

"That's all anyone does, outside of the Qun." She watched the fire and waited as he considered it. "Maybe. I dunno. I wasn't lying about it doing good work. The South is a mess, and the Inquisition is in a good position to cut through the political crap and actually help people. The refugees in Haven all seem well-fed and rested. Can't say the same for the higher-ranking members, though."

"Which would help more?" She looked up again, trying to make him out in the low light. "On average, over time. Bringing in the mages, or bringing in the Templars?"

Bull shook his head. "That's above my pay-grade. Sorry."

"You don't have an opinion?"

"Not one I'm gonna share," he said. "You wanna try and get some rest?"

The dismissal was sudden, but given how Tony was struggling to keep her eyes open, it was somewhat warranted. She tossed her stick into the fire and stood, brushing off her leggings. Even while sitting, Bull was nearly taller than her; she had to duck to the side to avoid his horns.

"'Try' being the operative word." She brought a hand to his shoulder and gave it a brief pat. "Thanks, man."

His eyepatch glittered distractingly, but she thought she could make out a smile. "Anytime."

Chapter Text

Warden Blackwall was well-named. Between the broad shoulders, the heavy brow, and the impressive beard, he looked sturdy. In fact, if Thedas had an illustrated dictionary, she would expect to find his picture alongside the entry for "sturdy." Close up, there were stray strands of silver combed into his inky black hair. Either the sun was at a flattering angle in the sky, or he truly had magnificent cheekbones. He had no information on why the Grey Wardens had been disappearing, or where they'd disappeared to, but at that moment, Tony didn't care much.

"If you're trying to put things right, maybe you need a Warden," he said, all eyebrows and earnestness. "Maybe you need me."

She bit her lower lip, smiling. "I'll bet," she said. After an awkward second, she remembered where she was, who he was, and why she probably shouldn't continue along that avenue of thought. "Which is to say, we'd be glad to have your help, Warden Blackwall."

They urged him to head to Haven directly. On their way to an established Inquisition camp, The Iron Bull caught her eyes with his one. "So," he said. "Not just blonds."

She hit him on the arm and nearly broke a finger. "Fuck."

"Careful," Bull rumbled, smiling. "You didn't look at me like that on the Coast. Should I be insulted?"

Varric looked up--and up, and up--and gave Bull a look of false surprise. "She didn't ogle you? She ogles me all the time."

"You're all bastards," she groused. "At least Solas doesn't ask about my--thoughts--on the matter."

"Simply because Solas knows," said Solas, voice vague and expression distant, barely paying attention to the conversation. "It is obvious enough."

"Ugh." This is exactly what she had tried, and failed, to ask Josephine about. It wasn't as though she could ask Varric about it, for all that he somehow knew Cullen from before their time at Haven. She'd considered it once, but the benefit of having his perspective was handily outweighed by the sheer embarrassment of talking to anybody about her stupid crush. Tony was pretty sure that any sort of teenage-sleepover conversation within earshot of Solas would make him leave the Inquisition on principle. Tony covered her face with her hands, cold fingers on warming cheeks. "I'm going to walk into the lake."

Varric laughed. "I wouldn't, if I were you. Fereldan waters aren't known for their clarity, but there are rumors about the smell. Hawke never learned to swim."

Tony huffed. "Anyway, you can all shut up. I mean," she added, voice lowering into a theatrical hiss, "Solas is right there. He could hear us!"

Solas' only outward reaction was a glance over to her, and if she hadn't already been looking at him, she would have missed it. Tony wiggled her fingers at him in a flirty little wave.

He didn't laugh, but he didn't scowl, either. Perhaps his mood had improved over the days of travel from Haven. After a moment, he sighed and brought his eyes forward once more. "I am flattered," he said. "However, I cannot accept your affections."

Tony groaned and staggered, hands clutched over her heart. "Oh! Shot through the heart, and you're to blame."

Solas' lips twitched, but no smile was forthcoming.

She leaned forward and looked up at him. "What would it take? A serenade?"

"No," he said, sudden and decisive enough to make her laugh.

The walk to the camp ended up being mostly Tony reassuring The Iron Bull of his desirability, which was no effort at all. Having someone to flirt with who would actually flirt back was another thing she hadn't realized she'd been missing.

"Sorry for not looking at you like a piece of meat," she said, giving him her best doe eyes. "I mean, look at you. You're the whole roast."

"If you say you like my rack," he said, tipping his horns to the side, "I might hold it against you."

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Which rack?"

"Your Worship!"

Tony recognized the tone more than the words, and her stomach immediately sank--panic. Her smile slid off her face and she jogged forward, meeting with a scout on the outskirts of the camp, behind the line of tents and crates of provisions. "What is it?"

She didn't recognize the scout, but she recognized the signs of his rushed journey: a red face, sweat-stained clothing, mud up to the knee. A breeze brought an unpleasant smell from him to her, sulfurous and peaty. He held out a letter that had been folded, rolled, and re-folded. "Urgent," he said, voice raw. "From the Fallow Mire."

Her heart fell, joining her stomach in her boots. "Thank you," she muttered, grabbing the missive and examining it closely for details. The paper was delicate to her touch, smelled of mold, and had been written on in a shaking hand with a blunted quill.

Herald of Andraste,

We thank you for your blessing.

She gripped the letter tighter. It wasn't from Scout Harding, or any of the established forward camps. It was from the kidnapped soldiers.

"Boss?" The Iron Bull asked, sounding far away. She flapped her hand at him, urging him to be quiet while she read.

Tony almost learned more from what they didn't say than from what they did. They were alive, being fed regularly, and had had a huge boost in morale from her letter. They were unable to leave, but they were not being tortured-- The Avvar aren't all savages like they say, Your Worship, they just have a strange way of things --and they had been permitted to send this letter to Harding, who had placed it in the hands of this bedraggled scout. The Hand of Korth, so he calls himself, is trying to make a name among the Avvar. He wants glory more than anything, like he's a child.

They practically apologized for being a bother. It made Tony's heart ache.

In the middle of their gratitude and explanations, they dropped a detail that brought her up short. "'Ser Willow drank her last vial of lyrium yesterday. She says she has a week before she feels the effects,'" Tony read aloud. She looked up, frowning. "What does that mean?"

The scout blinked at her. "Ser Willow is a Knight-Corporal, Your Worship," he said. "Or she was, before she followed the Inquisition."

"What does--what are you doing," she said, shoving his shoulder. "Sit down before you fall over. Thank you for this."

"Herald," he said, excusing himself gratefully to the fire.

Varric stood beside her, arms crossed. "'Knight-Corporal' is a Templar title," he said. "She needs lyrium."

"Do the Avvar not use it?" She scanned to the bottom of the letter, but there was no further explanation. "It's expensive, so maybe they won't share even if they do have it. But if Ser Willow is a Templar, she only needs lyrium to use her abilities, doesn't she? She's imprisoned. Are they making her use her powers?"

"Tony," said Varric. She blinked, caught off-guard by the somber way he said her name. She looked at him, seeing the tight grief in his face but not understanding it. "She needs lyrium."

She swallowed, dread growing. "Or what?"

He sighed through his nose. "Or she dies."

Tony sucked in a breath, feeling that information like a punch to the gut. Templars were not mages, but they used lyrium--magical ability came from the blood, the spirit, both--Templar abilities were not exactly the opposite of magic--mages used lyrium the way everyone else used health potions, to restore their spiritual health instead of their constitution. Why, then, were Templars the only non-mages that used lyrium? Why didn't everybody use lyrium to gain an edge over those born magically adept?

Because there was a price.

Tony felt her heartbeat in her ears as she read the letter again. Herald of Andraste, it began. She'd never had the chance to meet these people; the Avvar had stolen them before she'd even visited Val Royeaux. Who knows what they thought of her, or how holy they presumed her to be. Those Templars--were they following Lord Seeker Lucius out of loyalty to the Order, or because they didn't have a choice? One week without lyrium, and you began to "feel the effects"--what effects? What happened after two weeks? After three?

We thank you for your blessing, they wrote to the woman who was condemning one of them to death. She hadn't known. Why hadn't she known?

"We have to go," she said. She cleared her throat, forcing strength she did not feel into her voice, and repeated, "We have to go to the Fallow Mire. Now."

Bull frowned. "Now?"

Solas stepped from beside her into her line of vision. "Surely you would wish to meet with your advisors first," he said, brow furrowed.

Tony glared at him. "The ride back to Haven alone would take days. We can't afford to be slow about this--we've already waited too long."

She watched his throat work as he bit back his initial response. "There is more to be done in the Hinterlands," he said. "It would be to the benefit of the Inquisition to have you remain here for the duration you had planned, accomplishing the tasks set out by the Spymaster, Commander, and Ambassador. Not even the Seeker is one for spontaneity."

The parchment crinkled in her hands as her fingers clenched. "What are you saying, Solas?"

"The life of one Templar--"

"She's not a Templar anymore." Without breaking eye contact, Tony pushed the note into Varric's chest. He accepted it and backed away. "Is that what this is about? Because she was once a Templar, she deserves to die? One mistake doesn't deserve--"

"It is hardly one mistake," he said. The musical, dreamlike quality in his voice was gone, revealing the steely cold underneath. "To have gained that rank requires skill. Devotion to the Order. How many mages suffered under her hand before she deserted?"

"Boss," said Bull.

Tony did not hear him. Her focus and her anger were focused on Solas alone. "Where were these hypotheticals when we recruited Blackwall, or Sera, or Vivienne? Maybe they're all evil murderers. I don't know. You certainly don't."

"I know more than you imagine," he hissed, all ice. His grey eyes flashed when he added, "I wonder if your faith in the Templars stems from your fascination with another of their deserters."

Tony's eyes zeroed in on Solas' face. As if in slow motion, she watched his expression falter, going from bitter to contrite. There was a shape to his right, moving toward him--Tony saw a hand about to land on his shoulder. Her eyes flicked over to the shape, and saw that it was another scout. This one was glaring.

Through buzzing ears, she heard the scout say, "Have a care, knife-ear."

Inside, Tony's anger went click.

In the moment, she registered little more than a disparate collection of sights and sounds. Her feet spread, her legs braced, and her fist connected with the scout's cheek; there was a low-pitched slap, a shout, a clatter. There was a tug at the back of her shirt, as if she'd been caught on a hook. When she resurfaced a few seconds later, she realized that The Iron Bull was holding her back.

Tony looked at Solas. He was still, his eyes wide. If he had any hair, perhaps it would be standing on end.

She looked away to the scout. He wasn't on the ground, but he had stumbled back a few paces. Had she not been wearing gloves, her knuckles would have stung from his stubble. "Apologize," she growled.

The man was too amazed to speak.

"You will never call anyone that again," she said, lip curling, teeth nearly bared. "You're a member of the Inquisition, and so is he. You owe Solas your respect, and an apology. Now."

"I--" He stuttered, gloved hand on his red cheek. "I'm s-sorry."

She tugged at her shirt. "Let me go." Immediately, Bull released her, and she tugged her jerkin back into place. "You," she said, jabbing her finger at Solas, "do not get to talk to me--to anybody --like that."

Solas stared at her, at least as confused as the chastised scout. "I--"

"I expect an apology later," she said, voice shaking, "but right now, I don't wanna hear it." Tony stomped past him, addressing the camp at large. "Who writes the fastest?" No one moved. She raised her voice. "I said, 'who writes the fastest'?"

A runner she recognized--Zofia--stepped forward, possibly pushed by the others. "Your Worship, I have worked as a scribe before."

"Do we have a raven in camp? Come take a dictation." Any quill she held right then would snap in half.

As Zofia set up her quill and inkwell, Solas boggled at Tony. "You are not suggesting--"

Tony whirled to face him. He bent back and away, spine curved and shoulders by his ears. "I don't have time," she snapped, "to be nice about this. If you don't want to come, go back to Haven. I can ask for Vivienne to join us."

Surprise seemed to be his chief emotion, obscuring any feelings of remorse he might have. "After you have seen for yourself the cruelty of the Templars, you would set aside the wishes of your advisors to rescue one?"

"Have you ever died before?" Tony gave him a beat to answer, but of course he didn't take it. "I have."

Solas blinked once, then twice. They had never spoken about this, and yet Tony had thought he must know already. He claimed to be able to sense some bit of magic in her; why wouldn't he be able to feel the way her soul and her body were held together with determination, spit, and glue?

"It fucking sucks," she said. "So don't go throwing it around like a solution to something, because it fucking isn't." She turned away, addressing the camp once more. "Has anyone here been to the Fallow Mire before, or has ever interacted with the Avvar? Confer with Scout--" She didn't know his name. "Confer with the scout that brought this letter. Any information would be appreciated." Solas had not moved away. Tony offered him the only explanation she thought he deserved. "I respect you," she said. "But I don't defer to you, and I can see how that chaps your ass, but you're gonna have to get over it." She looked away from his shocked expression. "The Iron Bull."

"Yes, ma'am."

Tony ignored the title change for now. "See if we can get fresh horses, and get us a map. Scout Harding didn't approach the Fallow Mire from this direction. Can we safely cut a straight line there?" Bull nodded, and Tony looked to Varric. "We'll need to restock our supplies. Am I correct in thinking dwarves don't react to lyrium?"

He grimaced, but replied, "Not the blue stuff, usually."

"Then I'd like for you to be in charge of it," she said. "Gather all the lyrium potions you can. They're diluted, compared to what the Templars use, and I don't know how many we'll need. You're food, health potions, and lyrium. Okay?" When Varric moved to the potions crate, Tony turned to Zofia. "Ready?"

Zofia nodded. Solas began to say something, then released his breath in a sigh.

"To the Council of the Inquisition," Tony began. Zofia's quill danced across the parchment. "It has come to my attention that one of the kidnapped soldiers in the Fallow Mire is in danger. A Templar recruit there is out of lyrium. Had I been told of the highly addictive nature of lyrium, I would have prioritized their rescue, and as you are the ones overseeing my education, I'm..." She grit her teeth. "Unimpressed. Underline that," she said.

"Already have," said Zofia.

Tony nodded. "Commander, I have sent Blackwall ahead to assist you with training recruits." She glanced at Solas, who had moved to arrange his pack on his horse. Tony swallowed a sigh. "Please also expect Solas back in Haven shortly. If possible, I would like to request the presence of Madame Vivienne at the Fallow Mire forward camp. Her expertise in magic and familiarity with the needs of Templars would be of significant help." She took a breath, trying and failing to calm herself. "When I return to Haven, I expect answers --underline that as well--about why things are still --underline--being kept from me. Go fuck yourselves, Tony."

Zofia's quill hesitated. "Was that last bit... are you serious, Your Worship?" 

"'Please go fuck yourselves,' then." She watched as Zofia added it, nodded, and clapped her on the shoulder. "Thanks. Send it now. The Iron Bull?"

He was the stationary center of bustling activity, like an alligator flocked by plovers. "No horses but the ones we rode in on," he said, "but we can send ahead for a change by the Winterwatch Tower."

"Do it. Thanks. Varric?"

"No mages in the camp, so only a little lyrium," he said, holding up two bottles in each hand, fingers around the necks. "Will this do?"

Tony shrugged; it would have to. "We'll get more on the way."

As the three of them saddled up, Solas mounted his horse. There was a moment where he looked down at Tony, seemingly coming up with some parting words. She cut him off. "Whatever you want to say," she said, "tell me when I get back."

After a moment, he nodded. "Lady Antonia."

As he rode away, she shook her head. At least he hadn't called her "Herald."

-

Rushing in Thedas was not the same as rushing in the Bay Area. There, you could miss your bus, but there'd be another in less than an hour; if you were taking the train under the Bay, you'd barely have to wait twenty minutes for the next one. Even during rush hour, some people were able to sit. Tony remembered sitting on a BART train, sandwiched between two people headed to the airport with seemingly all of their worldly possessions stacked around them in hard-shelled luggage. She'd been sweaty, cramped, and annoyed, but she'd still been able to read a book. She certainly didn't leave the train with cramping legs or an aching back. Yet she remembered that trip putting her in a sour mood for hours.

The journey from Lake Calenhad to the Fallow Mire took eleven days. Not even Tony could stay angry that long; she occasionally took a break from rage to feel anxiety, remorse, and frustration, cycling through them at varying rates.

Horseback riding had not grown on her. As soon as a horse was moving faster than a leisurely walk, her spine jarred and pinched, up and down, like a poorly-played accordion. Every morning, she woke up for her watch with a groan, hobbling to a tree stump or crate with the slow care of a supercentenarian. Every evening, she brushed down her horse, willing the smell to join the hair that blew away on the breeze.

None of them had packed for such a long journey, so the horses were not the only things that smelled. Tony's new clothes gained stains under the arms and around the neck, regardless of how often she switched between her chemises. Her boots seemed immune to the strain, at first. This was not to last, of course--they were on their way to a place literally called the "Mire." When she had the energy, she hoped that this wouldn't be the thing that made Leliana snap.

One particularly humid evening, Tony stood from her seat around the dinner fire. "Fuck this," she announced.

Varric and Bull looked at each other, then at her. They'd seemed to have bonded over her various outbursts, and she didn't know that she liked it.

"I'm sweaty," she said, "and I'm itchy, and I can't fucking stand it anymore." She began to unbutton her jerkin. "The Iron Bull's had his tits out this whole time. I don't care if it's cold, I need this shit off me."

"Uh," said Varric.

"Go for it," encouraged Bull. He was smiling, but there wasn't a leer to it--well, not much of one. "Let 'em breathe."

She tossed her jerkin, tunic, stays, and chemise into her tent, returning to the fire wearing only her brestband, leggings, and boots. She kept her hair up; with the collection of oil, dust, and other muck, it barely needed the fret to stay in place. She crossed her legs by the fire and raised up her arms, airing out her pits. "Jesus fucking Christ," she groaned, letting her wrists rest on top of her head. "That's better."

In a weird show of solidarity, Bull unbuckled his shoulder armor, pulling it off along with his gauntlet. The leather was discolored on the underside, like an old baseball glove. Varric's eyes were on the fire, and Tony could practically see the mathematical equations floating around his head.

"C'mon, Tethras," she urged. "It's not like what you're wearing counts as a shirt."

"I'm just thinking," he said, smiling into the fire. "Is it Ferelden that does this to people? Because--here's something I didn't put in the book--Hawke? She hates wearing clothes. I've seen her pale ass more times than I can count." He sighed, shook his head, and stood. "I'm too sober for this."

Tony blinked. "Excuse me?" When Varric wandered over to his horse and pulled a bottle out of the saddle bag, she repeated, "Excuse me? We all but ran out of that camp by the lake, and you thought to pack booze?"

"I brought it from Haven," he corrected. "You never know."

They washed their bowls clean of dinner and filled them with apple brandy, something that tasted like hard cider with a grudge. After sufficiently warming himself with the brandy and the fire, Varric tugged his shirt over his head and folded it lovingly. When Tony snorted, he gave her a look. "It's a nice shirt, okay?"

"It is nice," agreed Tony, just as Bull said, "You are such a city boy."

"Of course I am," said Varric, responding to Bull. "Kirkwall, remember? Sure, I'm out here in the deepest dogshit of the Fereldan wilds now, but I was born and raised there. I'm accustomed to fancy things like, I don't know, ceilings."

Bull snorted into his bowl. "No one forgot you were from Kirkwall, Varric. You don't shut up about it long enough."

"What's it like?" Asked Tony. Varric looked up, surprised. "Kirkwall." Bull was also staring at her, his one eye fixed on her face. She frowned, fighting against a blush. "What? Is that--should I not ask that?"

"Tony," said Varric, gobsmacked. "Have you not read The Tale of the Champion?"

Tony's frown deepened. A dozen excuses ran through her mind, only a handful of them lies. "I've been meaning to?"

Both men erupted into monologues. Tony looked between them, thoroughly overwhelmed, as she sipped.

Varric said, "I don't believe it. You? You, who reads everything that stands still long enough, haven't read my most celebrated work? If I didn't know any better, I'd take it personally."

Bull said, "Poor form, Boss. It's the most popular story on the continent, other than the Chant, and most people down here don't consider the Chant a story at all."

Tony smiled at Bull. "So I'm 'Boss' again, now?" At his blank look, she explained, "Back near Lake Calenhad, you called me 'ma'am.'"

He sighed, ending the exhalation in a chuckle. "Yeah. Sorry about that. You used massran-oslub." Tony let her incomprehension show. Seeming vaguely embarrassed, Bull said, "You said you were a teacher, right? Well, some teachers have these voices--'listen to me, be quiet, this is important'--that works on soldiers as well as kids. It's a hard thing to fake, and I wasn't expecting it. When you got angry, you got angry." He nodded, smiling in what looked like approval. "It hit a place I haven't been hit in a while. My bad. You're still 'Boss,' to me."

"Ah." Tony shrugged. "I think it's just called 'teacher-voice,' where I'm from." She looked into her bowl, considering her bizarre situation. "If I'd known Solas' middle name, I would have used it."

Varric leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chest hair resplendent in the firelight. "You ready to talk about that?"

She frowned. "Have you been waiting for me to be ready to talk about that?"

"In a manner of speaking, yeah. You said you weren't willing to listen to Chuckles at the time, so I thought I'd check in and see if that was still true." His eyes were soft. "What's this about you dying?"

Tony had honestly forgotten how that might be news to him. She shrugged. "That it happened. That's--isn't that sort of self-explanatory?" He kept looking at her, expectant but kind. It made her feel weirdly guilty. "Look, it's not like I was trying to keep that a secret. Cassandra knows, and Josephine and them. It just seems kind of... I don't want to play that card often, but I needed to shut him up somehow, and it's true. Before I came to Thedas, I got," she gestured, two fingers together and thumb up, "got."

Bull pointed his chin at her gesture. "What's that supposed to be?"

She grimaced. "Something I'm glad you don't recognize." Varric was still waiting patiently for something--an apology, an explanation, a reason to stop staring at her--and she felt herself weaken. "I came from the Fade, remember? The land of dreams? 'O Maker, hear my cry,' et cetera? People talk about demons a lot, and spirits, but that's where dead people go as well, I thought. The bits you don't see burn, anyway. Souls." At Varric's souring expression, she grumbled, "If you didn't want this to be a metaphysical conversation, you shouldn't have asked in the first place."

"Maybe I shouldn't have," he agreed, rubbing his face with a hand, the beginnings of a beard rasping against his palm. "So--what, you think you're in some kind of afterlife?"

Tony's stomach lurched. "I fucking hope not. No, I--I don't 'think' anything. I don't know. I died, and now I'm here."

Varric gave her a look that went beyond skeptical. "And you aren't at all curious about the details?"

She put her bowl down, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at him. It was so easy for him to ask, and so impossible for her to answer. She couldn't fight the suspicion that he was doing research for whatever book he was working on, and she didn't think she wanted this bit to get out into the greater public. The Tale of the Herald would sell enough copies as things stood; spilling her guts about this would only serve to make her uncomfortable.

Bull shifted, rolling a shoulder. "I wouldn't be," he offered. "I wouldn't wanna know all the creepy specifics. Fade shit is weird."

Varric didn't look like he disagreed, but he pressed on regardless. "See, ordinarily I'd just think you're crazy and move on. It's not really my business. But here's the thing." He scratched his scalp, picked out a stray leaf, and tossed it into the fire. "If you're not from here, you might not really know what you're talking about--not what it means to people like me and Tiny."

She raised an eyebrow. "Liars?"

"Locals," corrected Varric. "People who grew up with the Chant, or at least knowing the broad strokes." He began to list off of his fingers. "So, you died. Sure. Shit happens, right? Then, your spirit travelled through the Fade, which also happens. Did your body come, too, or are you hitching a ride in someone else's? Because that's what we call 'possession,' and it can end in any number of gruesome ways. Maybe your body did come through with you. The last time a mortal person went through the Fade, it didn't end well for anybody. Maybe you didn't die; maybe you were saved by some spirit, or Andraste, or the Maker. That means you're either sharing your body with a spirit--and if I had to guess, it'd be whatever the not-demon version of Rage is--"

"Thanks," said Tony, only slightly offended.

"--Or you really are what they say you are," he said, "and if that's the case, it's... really weird that you aren't wearing a shirt, right now."

"I kept dropping hints, but you weren't picking up on them." She took a sip from her bowl, processing. "The Iron Bull, what does the Qun have to say about all this?"

He shook his head. "It doesn't." She tilted her head in question, and he clarified. "You say any of that shit in Par Vollen, you get," he pointed with two fingers, "'got.'"

Tony reflected on her relative good fortune. "Glad I landed in deepest dogshit Ferelden, then."

"You 'landed,'" said Bull, "on the border between the heart of the Southern Chantry and some of the most devout, least educated people in Thedas. If you wanna call that 'lucky,' go ahead. Can't say I agree."

There was a moment--half a moment--where Tony wanted to turn and ask Solas for his perspective. Of all of them, he knew the Fade the best. If anyone would be able to explain what she was, without insisting she was the fated Herald of Andraste, it would be him; he only referenced that particular belief when he wanted to be an asshole. She could easily blame the lapse in her memory on the fatigue, as there was plenty of that to blame, but that wasn't it. Part of her had expected him to come with them. Part of her, that little optimistic bubble that she pretended didn't exist, thought he might get over his prejudice against Templars and see what she was trying to do by saving one. That he was wise enough to understand that life--even stupid, misguided, possibly brainwashed life--was worth at least trying to save. But then she remembered he wasn't there, that she didn't want him there, or hadn't, at least. Because--

"He's just so frustrating," she burst out.

Varric reared back, caught off guard. "Who is?"

"Solas," Bull told him. Then, to Tony: "I already told you, he's just a prick."

"You're just a prick," she snapped. Immediately, her shoulders sagged. "I don't--I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

Bull made the facial expression equivalent of a shrug: eyebrows raised, mouth turned down, a tilt of the head. "I know. It'd be okay if you did, though."

Tony let out a billowing sigh, trying and failing to get her thoughts in order. "I'm just--I can't fucking believe that guy." She adopted Solas' voice, laying the rhythmic hoity-toitiness on with a trowel. "'I wonder if your faith in the Templars stems from your fascination with'--I mean, Jesus, am I that shallow? Do I come off as shallow? Be honest." She considered her companions. "Or as honest as you can be, given your, you know, everything."

Varric shook his head. "Writers and spies are not on the same level, as far as lying goes. Just saying."

"Agree to disagree," said Tony. "So?"

Varric sighed, hands up in surrender. "Would I call you shallow? No. Do I know exactly the guy he was talking about?" He gave a small shrug, wincing as he did. "Yeah, but--y'know, he's a good-looking guy, if you like... good-looking guys." Tony let that fester in silence until Varric added, "Look, he's fine. Maybe not worth the hubbub, but what do I know?"

"He fights like a Templar," said Bull. It didn't sound like a compliment, even before he added, "Not a lot of range."

Tony was caught in an uncomfortable position between defending Cullen and denying everything. She picked dried mud off of her leggings, feeling the brandy like a warm coal in her gut. "But--yeah, but I'm not just... doing what he wants me to do."

That got Varric to chuckle. "Not even close. No, if you were under Curly's thumb, we'd've gone to Therinfal Redoubt last week, riding in chariots pulled by mabari. Chuckles was just being shitty."

"And I don't have faith in the Templars," she added. "From what I've seen, they're just cops in plate armor that hate magic and love--fuck, I don't know." Her hand flapped around. "Being sanctimonious." Also disarmingly beautiful and charming, in one outstanding case. Speaking of--"Hey, uh. While we're on the topic..."

"I still can't believe you haven't read my book," said Varric. "Curly's in my book. Will that do it?"

Embarrassingly enough, yes, but she wasn't about to say so. "So I've seen him around." She grimaced. "By which I mean, I've seen how he interacts with people. I know he doesn't want--you know." Her hand gesture was meant to encompass the entirety of human interaction. "Distractions, I guess. But I just--do you think I make him uncomfortable? I try not to, but I have no idea how successful I am."

"Better question," said Varric, topping up his bowl. "Have you ever seen him not uncomfortable?"

She made the same face-shrug that Bull had. "Fair."

"Don't worry about it." When Varric offered her another splash, she nodded, leaning over to close the distance between bowl and bottle. 

That wasn't nearly enough of an answer, but how could Tony push without sounding desperate? She frowned, turning thoughts over in her mind, sifting through the days and weighing her interactions. Was she desperate? Was there a solid line between the tittering Orlesian ladies and the one who serenaded them? Cassandra had called her a "romantic" person, and Tony still didn't know what that was supposed to mean. How much of what was in her head bled out into her conversations with him, even when he always had the posture of a stray cat about to bolt?

"Or," he corrected, "because you're you, try not to worry about it and then worry anyway."

She snorted. "That, I can do. Thanks."

Bull leaned forward as well, accepting a bit more brandy. Smile going impish, he asked, "Do you have a poem for him?"

Tony almost sprained her neck whipping around to stare at him. "How the fuck do you know about me and poems?"

He shrugged, still grinning. "Do you, though?"

"No." But then the thought weaseled into her mind, and she wondered if that was strictly true. Teasdale had a somewhat relevant perspective, but she wasn't about to recite it to Bull. "Also, he wouldn't appreciate it if I did. That's what I'm saying. You need to listen, The Iron Bull."

"I'll get on that." 

With the mercy of a saint, Varric steered the conversation away from Tony's ridiculous feelings. There was plenty to complain about, which always seemed to inspire him. They didn't empty the bottle, but it sloshed in an entirely different key when Varric put it away. When evening had transformed fully into night, Tony let herself feel a little relieved. Between saying she was dead and admitting she was an idiot about the Commander, her mental burden had significantly lessened. Tony had never been a fan of secrets.

She fell asleep pondering the many unfortunate possibilities of her existence. Was she a spirit possessing a body? Was she an abomination of some kind? As she began to drift, she kept herself from veering too far in either direction. She was no Pangloss. Thedas was not the best of all possible worlds. Still, it could always be worse. For all the kinds of not-quite-alive beings Varric had listed, he'd never breathed mention of zombies.

-

"Fuck, fuck, fuck--"

"Be still," said Vivienne, freezing an undead warrior from the waist-up. It staggered forward and shattered against the island in the swamp. "Movement only attracts their attention."

Tony crouched low, as if she could hide behind the veilfire torch. Bull, Varric, and Vivienne cut down the groaning corpses with ease, Vivienne sparing enough energy to surround Tony with a misty barrier.

Bull crushed a skeletal archer with his maul like an overly enthusiastic player of whack-a-mole. "You sure you don't want in on this, Boss?"

She moved to cover her mouth with her hand before remembering all the horrible things she might have touched. "Pass."

Bianca let loose a bolt that landed inside the eye socket of a broadsword-weilding mummy, passing straight through its head and plopping delicately into the water. After a long moment, the corpse realized that it had been vanquished, and plopped down far less delicately.

"Maybe we stay out of the water," suggested Varric.

Vivienne, the whites of her robes entirely unmarred by mud and battle, nodded once.

They'd met up with Vivienne and Scout Harding at the Fallow Mire camp, the former offering hot food and a smile, the latter perched upon a crate as if it were a throne. They planned out their route of ingress over steaming cups of weak tea, and Vivienne heroically did not comment on the stench Tony had brought with her through the rain.

The group approached Hargrave Keep with the sound of a thousand sickly kisses, boots sucking at the damp ground. Vivienne's boots did not have this problem. Even odds that she wasn't using magic, and had instead intimidated the mud into staying on the ground.

"So," panted Tony, thighs aching from high-stepping, "how pissed is everybody, back at Haven?"

Vivienne gave her a bland smile. "Do you truly wish to know, my dear?"

"Hah." Tony shook her head. "Nope."

"Then do not bother asking." Vivienne continued her unbelievably graceful procession through the muck. "Young Martin wished to send his regards."

Hearing that soothed an ache Tony hadn't realized she'd been feeling. Before she could ask after him, Bull slowed to a stop. She, Vivienne, and Varric followed suit.

Varric adjusted his grip on his crossbow. "I don't like this."

"Really?" Tony raised her eyebrows at him. "Because I'm loving it so far--"

He was pointing. Tony followed his gesture to see a large, man-shaped rock in the distance. At least, she really hoped it was a man-shaped rock. It looked huge. She had to look up at The Iron Bull to regain her confidence in her plan.

It was a good plan. It would work. It was just kind of tricky, and she only had one shot to get it right.

The Iron Bull nodded, then made a strange, frog-like croak into his hands. Scout Harding had archers out there in the fog, and at Bull's signal they fanned out. Though Tony couldn't see them, she knew that a few spies moved on ahead, giving the man-shape a wide berth. Tony approached with her eyes forward, not wanting to give away the game.

Because Tony had no luck at all, the man-shape was an Avvar. It was difficult to get a clear impression of his appearance in the darkness of the Mire and his mask, and so Tony focused on the only details she could see: skin painted pale, lips painted dark, a body made of muscle and little else. He was armed with a massive hammer, the head of a wolf snarling at its end. He was wearing armor made of metal, leather, and furs. It was easy to imagine that he'd gotten the furs by himself, straight from the animal.

"Hello," said Tony. Then, remembering herself, she said, "I am Antonia Gonzalez of Haven. May I know what to call you?"

The man nodded once, and did not immediately squash her with his hammer. A good sign. "You may call me Sky Watcher, Antonia Gonzalez of Haven. I'd doubted you'd actually come."

She squinted. "Skywalker?"

"Sky Watcher," he said, enunciating.

"Oh." Sky Watcher--a title, not a name. "Sorry if I kept you waiting. Are the Inquisition soldiers all right?"

Again, he nodded. "Some injured, none dead. Someone trained them well."

Tony let out a shaky breath. "Good. That's good." She cleared her throat. "Sky Watcher, I'd like to know why my men have been kept here. It can't be for ransom--would you even accept Fereldan money?"

Sky Watcher rolled one of his massive shoulders. "You'll get nowhere bargaining with me. It's the Thane's son who wants to fight you, and it's on his order the men of our hold have kept the men of yours."

For a split second, Tony let her brow furrow. There was every chance that an Avvar could see better in this darkness than she could, given their many mysterious abilities, and so she quickly schooled her face into civil blankness again. "You sound less than enthusiastic about the idea."

He laughed, or perhaps growled. "Our hold has no quarrel with yours, Inquisition, but the Thane's son claims the Hand of Korth as his name. He'll be satisfied by nothing but your blood."

Tony cleared her throat. "I--from what you say, I hope that you disagree. If not, I'm confused as to why I still draw breath."

"They say you've been chosen by your Andraste," said Sky Watcher. "That you mean to heal the Lady of the Skies. Is that true?"

"Which part?" She rubbed her sweating palms on her muddy trousers. "I mean to heal the Lady, absolutely. I have already, a little. That doesn't make me the 'Hand of Andraste,' though." At best, it made her the Caulking Gun of Andraste. "Listen, the Mountainfather takes pride in feats of strength, but Andraste doesn't. Hasn't enough blood been shed, here?"

"I cannot answer for the Hand of Korth," said Sky Watcher, obviously annoyed at repeating himself.

"I'm not asking him, I'm asking you." She wished she knew more. She wished there had been an entire library's worth of information on the Avvar for her to peruse. Of course, that was an impossible wish; even if there had been so many books, she knew that writing stories was not the cultural norm for them, and so every resource would have been, at best, secondhand. Standing there, muck up to her calves and mist hanging between the trees, she thought about thanes and holds. It felt familiar, but not due to her personal experiences. It was pure Beowulf.

Tony squared her shoulders and answered as honestly as she could. "I don't want to kill him," she said. "I doubt that I could, but more importantly, I don't want to kill anybody. Is there any way I could earn his trust? Or," she said, the idea striking her mid-sentence, "is there a way to earn yours?"

He considered her. "There," he said, pointing, "the Lady suffers. Heal her wound, and we'll see."

A rift. Annoying but not insurmountable, as far as obstacles went.

As soon as she approached, demons came forth from beams of light. Her companions were the ones who actually fought--the rest of the soldiers and scouts from the Fallow Mire Inquisition camp were under strict orders not to reveal themselves unless someone went down.

Tony reached out her left hand and pulled, green light arcing between her and the hole in the sky. She pulled, and it closed, as if she were a needle and the magic were a thread. In that half a second where the rift was closing but not closed, something fell from the light, landing in the mud with a gentle thump. Tony walked slowly over to it, hesitant but curious.

It was a rectangle the size of her palm, its bright red and white design obscured by dirt and grime. Tony picked it up, feeling outside of herself. It fit easily in her hand; she'd held one of these dozens if not hundreds of times in her life. She opened the cardstock case and tipped out the cards inside, their bright red designs screaming out at her in the dim light.

"Boss?"

Tony closed the box of cards and shoved them in her pocket. "Nothing."

The Iron Bull gave her a moment's scrutiny, and she smiled at him. After another moment, he simply nodded.

Sky Watcher, having witnessed her close the rift, had changed his tune considerably. "I'd thought it a story only."

Tony shrugged and gave him a small salute. "It may still be one, someday. For now, though--Sky Watcher, 'fate will unwind as it must.' Would you please help us?"

She explained part of her plan, and Sky Watcher agreed to stay to the sidelines. "Imhar guide you."

Imhar the Clever, their trickster god. Tony's smile grew more genuine. "Thanks."

As she approached the ruined keep, she began to think of all the characters she might embody for this gambit. Small and weak was easy, but not distracting enough to hold the eye for longer than a minute or two. The self-professed "Hand" of any god would respect a number of things, including physical strength, magical power, and bullshit. In the absence of the first two, Tony had decided to lean heavily on option three.

Bull held out a hand to stop the group. "Here," he said. "Their archers will see us once we round that corner."

Tony nodded. "Thanks, everyone. See you on the other side."

Vivienne, Varric, and Bull dispersed, keeping out of the water as best they could. Once again, their ability to walk somewhat quietly through the muck impressed Tony. Thankfully, her role required her to be loud, so the sucking sound her boots made was no longer an issue.

"Hand of Korth?" She wrung her hands together, slumping her shoulders to make herself look even smaller. "Mister Hand of Korth? Hello? Is anyone there?"

All this, she said outside of the double gates of the Keep. She wasn't about to walk into that building, as she had no desire to be brutally murdered. She stood in clear view of their archers, but she did not see any movement from the towers. As she had suspected, no one had been ordered specifically to kill her on sight. She let out a shaking breath. So far, so good.

Tony took another moment to summon a few muses. Susan Sarandon from Rocky Horror Picture Show had an eagerness to her nervous energy, and Tony tried for that same brittle smile. She brought her gloved hands to the laces of her jerkin, loosening it and urging her cleavage higher. Breasts rearranged, she pitched her voice to carry and said, "Mister Hand of Korth, I'm Herald. I mean, I'm the Herald. I'm--it's me, it's the Herald of Andraste. Where are you?"

A bit of shuffling. A muted exchange of words. Finally, the further of the two gates opened, and a giant of a man walked through the opening. Tony was no warrior, but even she could see the choices this man had made about his appearance were less about martial ability and more about theatrics. The headgear? The huge weapon? He might as well be auditioning for the part of Conan the Barbarian.

"So you have come at last," he said. There was a stone in the path to the Keep, and he brought one foot to rest against it. His eyes were locked on her boobs, which was less than endearing. "Was it fear that kept you away?"

There was no stone for Tony to pose with, so instead she adopted the stance of Barbarella, hip jutting to the side. "Oh there you are," she squeaked, not having to fake much of the fear. "Wow. Hi. Um, you said you wanted to see me?"

More posturing. More flexing. He kept his hand on the lower bit of his maul, which made his bicep bubble up like a blister. "Your Lowlander Andraste means nothing to the true gods of the Avvar. I have come to silence you."

Tony had never seen a full-length mirror in Thedas, but if they existed, this dude definitely had one. Keeping her thoughts off of her face, she pushed her hair back with a nervous hand, not having to fake looking dirty and damp. Adopting the air of a blonde in the first ten minutes of a horror movie, she said, "Oh, but--but I was hoping we could just talk. Can't we talk?"

The Hand of Korth growled. He lifted his hand, the one not angling his maul rakishly on his shoulder, and signaled to someone on the upper levels. As he did, the gate fell behind him and raised between him and Tony. A prudent safety measure, Tony reasoned. Also terrifying, given that there was no barrier between them, now.

She was unarmed--she didn't even have that stupid dagger on her hip. All she could do was retreat a few steps, trying to keep a good amount of distance between them. "I have notes," she said, patting down her pockets in a flurry. "Things I wanted to say. Where did I put them?" She began to sweat, genuine terror egging her along.

"Notes?" He bristled. "I am the chosen of the Mountainfather. He speaks through me, and his will--"

"I just had them," she assured the Hand of Korth. "They were just here, I promise--" She brought her heel back against a tree root and tripped, only just catching herself from falling to the ground. "Oh, gosh."

"You have come here to fight," he said, prompt and certain, plowing ahead through Tony's dithering. "To call to the Lady of the Skies. You are either brave or foolish to come alone."

Above them both, there was a change in the light of the Keep. A lantern seemed to flicker, and there was a muffled cry. Tony began to cough, bringing one hand to cover her mouth and the other to hold up a finger to the Avvar. The Hand of Korth flinched, and Tony realized that he must know something about how magical her hand was. She loudly cleared her throat, and he did not notice that his archers were no longer there.

"I'm sorry about that," she said. "It's the damp. It's awful for my throat. How have you been dealing with it? Do you have any tea? I'd love some tea."

The enormous man looked cartoonishly insulted by the question. "I am the Hand of Korth," he repeated, voice booming. "I issued a challenge, not an invitation to drink tea."

Tony took a mental picture of that moment, knowing that this was going to be the thing she told Varric about as soon as they got out of this. Assuming they did get out of this. Assuming this guy didn't stop talking and start swinging. His hands were still on his maul.

"Please," she said, looking up at him with eyes full of semi-genuine fear, "I didn't mean to, to accept your challenge, I just--I thought we could talk about this. Why do you hate me so much?"

Tony had asked that question of people before. It put them in an awkward position, as there wasn't a great answer to it, and no one liked to feel like the bad guy. Certainly not people like the Hand of Korth, self-styled heroes of legend. She watched him do the mental math and focused on the chill of the air, bringing in her elbows to emphasize her chest.

The Hand of Korth stood over her, the difference in their sizes making them look like two different species. He said, "You did not mean to answer my challenge, little Lowlander. Did you?"

She smiled up at him, relieved. "No. I didn't. I'm so glad you understand, Hand of Korth. I'm so, so sorry to bother you--"

"It is a shame," he said, stepping forward. "It will be a simple thing to crush you."

Tony couldn't run away. She had to maintain a line of sight with the towers of the Keep. She'd done this incorrectly; all this acting like a scared rabbit had inspired the Hand of Korth to want to chase her. She couldn't hope to outrun him, even if she tried; his legs were twice as long as hers.

So she stepped back, pulled off her left-hand glove, and held up her hands to guard her face. The green mark flashed, bright in the dimness of the Mire, and she squinted against it. She cried out, "Please! Don't hurt me! I'll do anything you ask, just please don't kill me, please!"

"Pathetic," he grumbled. His hands gripped the maul tighter, gearing up to swing. 

Tony glanced over his shoulder, willing someone to give her a sign. There were no flashes from the towers, nor any reassuring waves of the hand. Tony's trousers were soaked with mud, her tunic heavy with filth, and the Hand of Korth was about to swat her like a mosquito. She should give those hidden Inquisition arches the signal. Wasn't he asking for a fight? Shouldn't she give him one?

Tony was bad with "should" at the best of times.

She screamed, clutching the wrist of her left hand as though her mark was hurting her. It didn't flash, but it was easy for her to remember how the Breach had felt, and that helped to sell it. She let her scream grow ragged, sobbing up at the Hand of Korth, begging him for her life.

Unnerved, he stepped back once more. "What is this?"

"Andraste," she cried out, "please, don't make me kill him!" She stared at her hand with wild eyes. "This--is this a dagger which I see before me?" She reached out, grasping at nothing. "The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch at thee..."

The Hand of Korth was frozen, looking at the same blank space that seemed to transfix Tony. His voice was worried when he said, "I see nothing."

"A dagger of the mind," she said, lowering her voice to a deep wail. "Mine eyes are made the fool of the other senses. Can you not see it, Hand of Korth? The dagger which Andraste has, against my will, placed eternally in my grasp?"

He looked down at her, hesitant, almost fearful. "I see nothing," he repeated. "What manner of trick is this?"

She screamed again, and as luck would have it, the mark finally did more than subtly glow. It flashed, pain prickling up her arm, light arcing away from her fingers. The Hand of Korth took several steps back, looking like he wanted to bolt back into the Keep.

At that moment, someone in one of the towers held up a mirror and flashed it three times, Tony flopped forward and began to pound the muddy path with her unmarked fist.

"Run," she howled at the Hand of Korth. "Please, save yourself! I can't control it!"

"You are mad," he said, worry threaded through his voice. "You are mad, and this is fruitless. Leave this place."

Tony continued rolling in the dirt for a few seconds, howling with sobs. The Hand of Korth backed away from her, hands on his weapon, unable to tear his eyes away. Once he was behind the line of the first gate, she stumbled to her feet and began to slowly walk toward him, hands out in front of her in the posture of one of the fetid undead warriors she'd seen. This got him to retreat even quicker, slamming down the gate.

Once the Hand of Korth was out of sight, Tony let her hands drop. She wiped her palms clean on her jerkin, which only served to move the mud around. She laced herself back in, cleared her aching throat, and walked back the way she had come.

Soon, the group was back together, along with the rescued hostages. Ser Willow was leaning against Bull so heavily that he was practically carrying her, his arm under her shoulders. There was a wild look in her eyes, a blue tinge to her lips, but her cheeks were flushed with health.

"Your Worship," she said, and moved as if to kneel in the mud.

Tony rushed forward, holding out her dirt-encrusted hands. "No, no--none of that, please. Are you okay?" Ser Willow began to stutter something about gratitude, but Tony shook her head. "All I did was creatively blaspheme for a few minutes. The real heroes are the people who broke into the Keep." She looked up at Bull. "Any losses?"

"Not on either side," he said. "We explained what we were doing, and they made it easy. Seems like most of those guys don't like the Hand of Korth much."

"Oh, really? Can't imagine--he's a great audience." She returned her attention to Ser Willow, who looked caught between a dozen different reactions. "Seriously, are you okay? I'm sorry you were out here so long."

Ser Willow nodded jerkily, as if she were running entirely on caffeine. "Yes. Thanks to you, Herald. I--I never doubted that you'd come."

Tony wanted to reassure her--wanted to say, "It's alright if you did"--but didn't know how.

They moved back out of the Mire at speed, Tony near the front of the group. She was eager to clean up after her one-woman show, and Vivienne'd had the foresight to bring them all changes of clothes. She could feel mud hardening in her hair, making her scalp itch. 

Before they made it out into the sunlight, they saw Sky Watcher again. He was at a distance, and he did not walk toward them, but he did raise a hand in greeting. Tony, smiling, waved back.

Tony was drenched in slowly-solidifying mud, hair a solid, heavy mass on her head, but she couldn't stop her smile. She was looking forward to telling the folks back at Haven about this, no matter how annoyed the Inquisition's Council was about the change in itinerary. No losses, she thought, and beamed all the way back to camp.

Chapter Text

Sera was sitting on a stool at the bar as if she only had a vague idea about how to do so. From behind the counter, Tony was drying a line of freshly-washed tankards with a scrap of linen. "Explain that again," said Tony.

"'S rubbish," said Sera. It was impossible for Tony to know whether or not she was slurring; it was simply how she spoke. "Never take me nowhere. 'S boring."

"And--just so we're clear--last 'nowhere' was a bog." She smiled, but was more confused than amused. "You're pouting because I didn't take you to a bog?"

"I'm not pouting," snarled Sera, gesturing with her half-empty glass. "Normal times, you take the elfy guy with you, but he's been here. Saying... stuff." She shrugged, and it was a miracle her drink stayed in her cup. "So far up himself he shits out his mouth, and you left him here! Where I am!"

Tony hadn't spoken with Solas yet. In fact, all she'd done since returning to Haven was bathe, dress, and try to get a bite to eat at the tavern. Since it was still under-staffed with new refugees coming in every day, she was helping Flissa before feeding herself. "Unintended side effect." Sera blew a raspberry. "Do you actually want to go wandering the countryside with me? That's kind of nice to hear."

"With Bull and them? Why not?" She gestured behind her to the full house. "Beats sitting around here drinking." Sera paused, perhaps weighing her thoughts. "Every once in a while, anyway. No place too sticky."

Tony restocked the tankards under the counter just as Flissa brought her another tray's worth of damp ones. She smiled her thanks and continued her task. "We almost exclusively go to sticky places, Sera."

"'Zat why you're hiding in here?" Sera smirked. "I hear you got your coat all fucked. And it's snow out."

Tony snorted. "Brilliant deduction."

Sera's scowl was back. "D'you always have to sound like such a knob?"

"What do you think a knob sounds like?" Tony leered, doing her best to look as though she was going over a catalogue in her mind. "It depends on what it's doing, really, but generally speaking--"

"No." Sera stood from the stool. "No. Eugh."

The door opened and let in a draft, as well as Seeker Cassandra.

"Eat my arse," said Sera.

Eyes on Cassandra, Tony said, "You couldn't handle it." Sera made another rude noise, drawing Cassandra's attention. Tony flapped her hand at Sera. "Off you fuck. I've got an argument to have."

Sera stumbled away, leaving her seat open for the Seeker, who remained standing at first. "Lady Antonia," she said, voice level but expression puzzled. "Why are you back there?"

Tony shrugged, trading out her damp rag for a dry one. "I keep expecting this place to hire more staff, but it never does. Every time I leave and come back, the crowds get bigger and bigger, but it's just Flissa and a few others."

Cassandra's eyes narrowed. "I was under the impression that you preferred to rest, upon returning from the field."

"I do." Tony shrugged a shoulder, then rolled it, trying to dismiss the tension in her neck. "Prefer it. Right now, I'm too anxious about tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

Tony focused on the tankards, figuring they were safe. "I don't know what the meeting is going to look like."

"I see," said Cassandra, and maybe she did. Tony was well aware that her posture was nervous and closed off, but that knowledge didn't mean she could change it. After a moment of silence, the Seeker continued, "I came here for dinner. I would like you to join me."

Tony blinked and looked up. Cassandra wasn't smiling, but she wasn't frowning, which was for her practically a grin. "Alright," said Tony. "Lemme do these and wipe down the bar, and I'll bring you something. There's a free table at the back, if you don't mind being near Maryden when she gets here."

Before sitting with Cassandra, Tony made absolutely certain there was nothing left to do back-of-house. The mountain of dishes were a more reasonable pile, and the dishwater had been completely changed out. Vegetables had been chopped and added to the stew, and there was a healthy stack of wood for the fire. Flissa was no longer frowning and flustered, instead smiling as she tossed dried mushrooms into a pot of broth. Tony had burned through her potential distractions too quickly.

"Shit," she said to no one. Then, to Flissa: "I'm going on break. Can I grab dinner for two?"

Flissa said, as she always did, "You needn't come back after, Your Worship. We're grateful for all you've done."

As always, Tony ignored her. She put two bowls on a tray, filled them with stew, and balanced fresh rolls onto their sides. She hefted the tray up one-handed, fingers splayed to evenly distribute the weight. "Door," she announced before stepping through it. With her free hand, she added a half-full bottle of middling red wine and two clean glasses to her load.

When Tony approached, Cassandra began to stand, as if to help. Tony waved her off. "I've got it balanced." She began to set the table, giving Cassandra a pointed look until the woman sat back down. "The Commander is giving me biceps," she added, "although, guess who hasn't practiced with her dagger for almost three weeks?"

Cassandra raised her eyebrows, but said, "I will not tell him that."

"Appreciate it." Tony handed off the now-empty tray to Jehanne when she passed--"Thanks"--then pouring the wine.

"You seem..." Cassandra took a moment to choose her words. "Accustomed to this. Feeding people."

"Hasn't everybody worked in food service?" Wine served, she tore a bit off her roll and dunked it in the stew. "They have back home. It's a common first job, up there with babysitting and retail." Cassandra still seemed perplexed, so Tony explained. "From what I gather, careers in Thedas are one of three things. You've got your family business: the farmer, the tailor, the shepherd. Then," she gestured with her glass, "you've got your apprentices: blacksmith, Templar sort of. Then, the wealthy jobless: the aristocracy, the nobles. Most of these people have one job for their whole lives. Right?" Cassandra nodded. "That's considered a really privileged position to be in, back in California. Professionally, you just take what's available, what you're given. I must have had a dozen different jobs before landing on being a teacher, and even then, teaching was far from the only thing I did."

Cassandra's focus was unwavering, even as she enjoyed her food. "A dozen jobs?"

"Just about." She shrugged. "I had rent to pay. That's life."

Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast chewed her food, no doubt trying to picture a life like that. Tony found she didn't hold the naivete against her; it wasn't malicious ignorance, just ignorance.

"But," said Cassandra, "do you enjoy it?"

"Feeding people?" Tony hummed, sipping her wine. "I like solving problems. Hunger's an easy one to solve, between individuals." Tony didn't think that she was being particularly obtuse, but Cassandra still looked befuddled. "If you're trying to ask what I want to be up to, you should know that Cullen and I already had that conversation, and we ended up just shrugging a lot. I don't know what I want to do. I just kind of... do things as they need doing." She rolled her eyes at herself. "God, I'm good with words. I should write a book."

"You must know something about it." Tony tilted her head in question, surprised at the certainty in Cassandra's tone. "You know enough to choose Thedas over your homeland by closing the Breach." Her mouth twisted slightly in disapproval. "You 'know' that you are not the Herald of Andraste, that you do not wish to find your place in the Chantry."

Tony frowned. "If you want me to convert, it's going to take more than one dinner."

"That is not what I am saying." She put her hands in her lap, possibly toying with her napkin or picking at her fingers. "It is difficult for me--for many of us--to read your intentions."

"So," she said, frown deepening, "when I said I was worried about how the meeting was going to go tomorrow, you decided to have it tonight? Right now, just us?"

Cassandra glared. "Let me speak." Tony waved her on before topping up her own glass. She continued, "You must understand that your actions have impressed us. You have recruited many to our cause, as well as brought in contacts and resources. While your language can be coarse, it is your deeds which carry weight, both here in Haven and with our allies." She broke eye contact. "When you went to save those men in the Fallow Mire, I understood your reasons."

Tony sucked a bit of meat from between her molars. "Did you."

Cassandra looked up and nodded. "They wrote to you as Andraste's Herald. Without your intervention, Ser Willow would have gone to the Maker believing you to be holy. From all you have said, that would be unbearable for you." Her certainty ebbed. "That is what I believe. It can be difficult to guess your feelings, from moment to moment."

She hadn't expected to hear that. "Really? I feel like I'm a pretty open book."

"You are not." At Tony's raised eyebrows, Cassandra gave an awkward shrug. "I had thought it to be only my failing, but in your extended absence, there have been many questions about you which I have been unable to answer."

"Oh." Tony's shoulders relaxed a little, and she let herself smile again. "I'd prefer gossip to business, if that works for you."

"Gossip?" Cassandra's smile warmed her eyes, the red of the wine deepening the color of her lips. Perhaps it was a good thing she never wore makeup--with those eyebrows and that bone structure, she'd leave a trail of broken hearts in her wake. "Let me see. This is Varric's area of expertise, not mine."

"I thought for sure you'd credit Josephine."

She shook her head, opinion fixed. "She has kept her opinion of you a secret. It is likely she does not see the benefit of complaining about you."

Tony's smile widened, sincerely amused. "But there are people complaining about me."

"Not as many as you may think." Cassandra leaned back in her seat, eyebrows pulled together as she thought. "Leliana finds you frustrating, as you must know. She is accustomed to picking people apart, but you have none of the usual threads. Vivienne has told me that you are capable in many areas, but will never be more than common." Tony was almost sure she knew what that meant, but asked Cassandra to clarify anyway. "You are of a lower-class background. You have no title, yes?"

"Other than the ones y'all have given me? No." She tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "I feel like I should say that titles are in short supply in America, but that's the letter of things, not the spirit. We have our dynasties and our nouveau riche. I've bounced between the lower and the working classes most of my life."

"You do not sound insulted."

"What, about Vivienne? Are you joking?" She grinned around the lip of her glass. "That woman shits diamonds, of course she thinks I'm common."

"And yet," said Cassandra, crossing her arms, "from what little I understand of what she says, it seems Sera thinks the opposite."

A light went on for Tony. "That's--you know how you said I talk like I'm rich?"

Cassandra quirked an eyebrow. "That is not what I said."

"Sure. The point is, I grew up around people who spoke like this, and it makes me sound--you know." She tilted her head up, the better to look down her nose. "Affluent." She shrugged, returning to her normal voice. "Translating into the local vernacular, my mother was somewhat noble. Landowning, educated, didn't need to work to pay the bills. My father was new money, but new lots-of-money. He encouraged me to take after her. He..." She cleared her throat. This could stay a lighthearted anecdote. It didn't need to get sad. "Anyway, I left that life fairly early on, but it left its mark on my--you know, my voice. It's not all bad--I like words, I like puzzling out how to say exactly what I mean--but it is a little..." She tilted her hand in a so-so gesture. "I was poor, but I sounded like a fucking tourist to most people. It could get tricky."

The Seeker absorbed this, nodding and frowning at her bowl. After a moment, she said, "And because you left your family at such an early age, you have no desire to return to them?"

"That's..." Tony gave a clipped sigh. "I mean, yeah, I'd rather nail my tongue to a post, but they aren't my whole world--my whole home. I want to stick around because there are more rifts than just the Breach, and there's every likelihood that more holes in the sky will open up when we close the big one. The sky's a fucking doily, right now. Leaving before we know it's all dealt with seems... not great?"

"What is your home, Lady Antonia?" Cassandra caught her gaze and held it, expression severe. "What is it that you are leaving behind in order to help us?"

This was such a sticking point with so many people. Tony took a moment to compose her answer, knowing that it would have to be more explanation than fact. "I'm not a criminal," she said. "I'm not a murderer or a thief, if that was a concern. I'm not a spy. I'm just... someone who walked away from an easy life. And life without money is hard, where I'm from." She squinted at the table, trying to pick out examples that Cassandra would be able to understand. "The water was bad. The food was worse, and expensive. I taught lessons six days a week, but I wasn't considered a 'teacher'--I was an adjunct, barely better than an assistant, paid irregularly, whenever the system remembered I was there. I served drinks at bars and had my keys between my fingers on my way to--on my way home. Just in case someone tried to hassle me. And they would, because it was four in the morning and I'm tiny and--why not?" She swallowed another sip of wine. For the first time in a while, she thought about how she couldn't have afforded this modest red a few months ago. "I read a lot, because the library didn't charge me anything." She cleared her throat again. "Listen, I'm not trying to--this isn't a pity thing, I'm just trying to explain--"

Cassandra stared. "You think I pity you?"

"I think it's easy to pity people like me," said Tony, eyes on her food. "I think it can feel like generosity, when you see someone who's struggling and you don't immediately spit." Cassandra didn't say anything, so Tony continued. "I think Leliana is worried that I have some complex agenda, and I think Cullen is worried I'm crucifying myself, but I genuinely--I'm leaving behind a bunch of nothing. At most, I'm dodging my debt collectors." She looked up. "Does that help?"

It visibly took a moment for Cassandra to understand the question. "Perhaps," she answered. Then, after another moment, "I cannot yet tell whether I am surprised or not."

Tony almost laughed. "Didn't mean to blow your mind."

Cassandra smiled, but it was muted, her mind still seemingly on Tony's words. "May I ask what caused you to leave?"

"Uh." Tony frowned. "A big green hole in the sky, and then gravity."

"No," she said. "What made you leave your family? If it is not too personal."

That also almost made Tony laugh. What could be more personal? "There's a Catholic belief that women can't love other women--or that they can, but it's a sin. A danger to other people, and to themselves." She sucked down the rest of her wine and set the glass down hard. "I fell for the wrong person. I don't want to talk about it. Have you finished?"

Cassandra, eyes wide, simply nodded. It was far easier to bus the table than it was to answer any questions. Tony, knowing she was acting like a coward, returned to the back room and began washing dishes, hiding from any reaction Cassandra might or might not have to that little revelation. Slowly, she fell into the rhythm of cleaning, and let time pass uncounted.

-

The next night's meeting was no less tense for Cassandra's attempted damage control. Only Leliana regularly met her eyes, and it was with such a blank expression that Tony might as well have been invisible.

Hands on her hips, Tony said, "It's come to my attention that trust is still a significant issue. I get that it's hard, but it's costing lives, and that's unacceptable. What I'd like to know is, who in this room knew that Ser Willow needed lyrium?"

A beat of silence. Cullen was the first to speak. "I did not. When she joined the Inquisition, she did not speak of her past. I was unaware that she had ever been a Templar."

Tony nodded. She returned her attention to Leliana. "Why'd you keep it from him?"

She tilted her head just so. "You are so certain I knew?"

"Please," said Tony, a headache threatening to form between her brows, "do not be a shit about this. Of course you knew. Why didn't you tell the Commander?"

Her lips thinned. "Ser Willow asked me not to. It was not necessary to violate her privacy."

"I..." Tony brought a palm to her forehead, shoving the pulsing ache back into her skull. "Okay. Let's pretend that's true. That she didn't almost die because of your fetish for secrets. Why didn't you tell her commanding officer about a possible medical issue?"

"It is not due to my fetish for secrets, Your Worship." She brought her hands behind her, clasping them at the small of her back. "Templars take vows to keep the secrets of the Order. Though Ser Willow left the Templars to join us, it is not difficult to understand her reluctance to share her dependence. It is, in fact, taboo to take lyrium without being a Templar. For the Order, it is meant to deepen their connection to the Maker and His will; to retain a dependence after breaking vows is considered..." She weighed her phrasing. "A delicate subject."

"Okay." It was an infuriating non-answer, but it seemed to be the best she was liable to get. "Cullen--you couldn't've done your own research on this?"

His eyebrows raised. "My own research?"

"The Iron Bull tells me that Templars have a specific way of fighting," said Tony. "You didn't notice?"

"I..." He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Perhaps I did, but many Templars train militia in smaller townships. I assumed that Ser Willow was one such case."

Tony sucked in a breath, held it, and released it in a clipped sigh. "Why?"

"Why did I assume?" He looked perplexed. "What reason would I have to doubt?"

She held her hands up to her lips, palms together, as if in prayer. "Yeah. Yes. Why did you doubt what you, a trained professional, were seeing?"

"Well, I..." He looked down at the map, sorting through his thoughts. "When Leliana mentioned Ser Willow--"

"There." Tony pointed at him. "That one. Why did you take Leliana at her word?"

He reared back slightly, affronted. "Why--?"

"Lady Antonia," Josephine cut in, "what is the purpose of these questions?"

"I want to hear it," said Tony. "I want to hear Cullen say that the reason he didn't question her is because she's the Left Hand of the Divine."

Cullen frowned. "She is the Left Hand of the Divine."

Tony barked a laugh. "No! She isn't!" Her voice pitched louder as she began speaking through tense, manic laughter. "For fuck's sake! She isn't the Left Hand, and you aren't a Templar! You keep telling me that you aren't a Templar, you're the highest-ranking commanding officer of the Inquisition's army, it is your fucking job to do your own research and ask the hard questions, Ser Willow was--and is-- your responsibility, Cullen!" She brought her hands over her eyes. "I can't believe--I'm just so fucking mad at you!"

The anger twisted around her lungs, making her breaths come out in small puffs, too harsh to be true laughter. When she brought her hands back down, her eyes weren't wet, but they were raw from the sleep she hadn't managed. She had not fully rested since returning to Haven. How could she have? Cullen's miserable expression was just as awful as she'd imagined it would be.

Cassandra's face was all open surprise. "Lady Antonia, you--you believe the problem is that we trust each other too much? "

"None of you are part of the Chantry anymore," said Tony, barely keeping her voice from rising into a shout. "You made that choice when you threw that book onto this table. You all need to start acting like it. Stop making assumptions. Stop using a chain of command that no longer applies. Work as a team, because people are dying out there, and no one is doing fucking shit about it." She swallowed, throat raw. "And I--I'll do it, too."

Leliana considered her. "What do you mean?"

"I'll be honest," said Tony. "I'll share more. Because I--I've got biases, too, you know. I'm just as likely--fuck, I'm more likely to make mistakes." She picked at her gloves, then forced her arms to her sides. "I care about how this goes, so--whatever you need."

Cassandra frowned. "I do not understand."

Was Tony seriously this inscrutable? She should play cards more often. "I'm saying that I want the Inquisition to succeed. Not just by closing the Breach, but by realizing what Divine Justinia set forth." Her mouth twisted in distaste at the heavy spirituality of her phrasing, but it was the truth. "This war needs to end. These people need to live. And--you know." She shrugged, jerky and awkward. "I'm sticking around, so I'd rather things not suck completely forever. Right now, I've got..." She took a deep breath. This amount of honesty all at once was exhausting. "When I close the Breach, I'm going to lose importance. My stock is going to fall. When all the rifts are closed, I'm not going to have some huge weird purpose anymore, and..." She rubbed her nose. "I'm saying I'm joining the Inquisition for real, now. Not just because I feel like I have to, but because I want to. Is that--how do y'all feel about that?"

"How?"

Tony jumped, as did Cullen and Cassandra. It took a moment to understand that the outburst had come from Josephine.

Her eyes were wet, but her lips were an angry slash on her face. Her brow was furrowed as she slammed her writing board down on the table, candle immediately extinguishing. "How can you do it?"

The question seemed to be for Tony, but she couldn't glean what was being asked. "Do what?"

"You are the eldest of your family," cried Josephine, hand over her heart. "You have four younger siblings, you have said--and yet you stay here? How can you be so--so righteous, and yet leave your family to despair without you?"

Tony exchanged a baffled look with Leliana, of all people. "Uh. What?"

"I should be grateful," she wailed. "As we all should be. Without you, the Veil would come undone and all would be lost--but your house, your real estate, your responsibilities--do you not see how thoughtless you have been to your flesh and blood beyond the Fade?"

"Um." She slowly held up her hands in surrender. "So--okay, obviously you've been holding this in for a while--"

"How can I hope to trust someone who would throw away these bonds?" Josephine turned away from the table, skirt fluttering out, and hid her face behind her hands. "You are so strange, Lady Antonia! It, it has been so h-hard--"

"Josie," sighed Leliana, walking behind Cullen to get to the Ambassador. Josephine was no longer strictly talking in words, preferring to sob; Tony hadn't realized the size of her emotional dam until it broke. Cassandra, Cullen, and Tony were left exchanging awkward glances, none of them seeming to know what to do with their hands.

Tony cleared her throat and addressed Cassandra. "I, um. I was planning on heading to Redcliffe, next."

She nodded. Cullen, eyes lowered, said, "It may be a trap."

"Yeah." Tony cleared her throat, recovering from a particularly high-pitched squeak from Josephine. "I'm--I'm not too clear on why Fiona couldn't just talk to me in Val Royeaux. I'll be careful."

Cullen nodded, still not meeting her eyes.

-

Redcliffe had been named by Ferelden's least inventive person. There were cliffs; they were red. Tony and Varric spent the ride discussing the potential of renaming the place to something more exotic. Tony suggested Land's Port, considering the sheer amount of commerce the place provided. It was situated perfectly between Orlais and Orzammar, and so many roads led to it, she could have also suggested calling it Rome. Since she was the only audience for the joke, she didn't. Cassandra and Solas chose not to play. Varric suggested Dogswater, due to the smell.

"That's not very nice," said Tony, trying very hard not to laugh and only marginally succeeding.

"No, it isn't," he grumbled, "But when your nose is the same height as a mabari, you have strong opinions about this stuff."

Tony glanced over at Solas, hoping to see something other than his usual placid expression. Unfortunately, he looked the way he always did, no more or less awkward than before he'd attempted to apologize.

"I did not intend to offend," he'd said.

To which Tony'd replied, "You did, though."

"And I apologized," he'd said.

"When?"

"A moment ago."

"No, you didn't."

"I see. Then, I would like to apologize."

"Go ahead."

"Have I not?"

"Oh my God."

And so, they simply journeyed together, the air between them neither warm nor cold.

There was a rift at the gate to the village. It was wrong. It tugged at her like a riptide, shooting out glyphs as if it had a mind of its own. The magical circles on the ground slowed down her companions to dreamlike speeds, suspending them in invisible molasses. Tony drew her pointless knife, trying to think through the shrieking of the grasshopper-fucked-a-nightmare-looking Terrors. By the time they'd manage to dispatch the demons and seal the thing, no one was in good enough humor to joke.

Tony turned to Solas, who was returning his staff to his back. "That was wrong," she said. "Right?"

"It was certainly unusual," he replied. Putting it lightly for her sake, or for his own. She couldn't tell.

Once through the gate, the omens grew somehow worse. When Tony had first learned about this village from Josephine, she understood that it was more of a city, and an important one at that. Beyond the trade routes, it was a place full of history, even from before the Blight--Calenhad the Great had liked the place, and had been quoted as saying so. If nothing else, Tony had been expecting the smell of smoking fish, the sound of villagers going about their various businesses.

Instead, she smelled nothing, heard nothing. Either the citizens of Redcliffe took siestas, or something very weird was going on.

"Well, fuck this," she muttered. Varric grunted in agreement. They soldiered onward.

In retrospect, maybe they shouldn't have. Grand Enchanter Fiona looked at them with complete surprise, claiming she had never spoken with them at Val Royeaux. The obvious lie wouldn't have been so unnerving if Fiona hadn't been so good at telling it. Tony kept thinking about the rift at the gates, and wondered if it had been something Fiona had done. Some magic that Solas didn't immediately recognize.

The mystery deepened when a fucking Tevinter magister entered the room and called Fiona to heel.

It would have been offensive even if Fiona weren't an elf. Tony glared up at Gereon Alexius and swallowed the first five things she had a mind to say. "Charmed," she spat.

"As am I," he said, voice all oil and silk. He claimed that the mages had willingly surrendered themselves to his protection.

Tony looked at Fiona. From her expression, she knew it wasn't a lie. "Why?" Tony asked, voice heavy with sadness. "Why did you... why make this choice?"

Fiona opened her mouth to answer, but Alexius cleared his throat. She remained silent. Muzzled.

Tony's knife was at her hip. Alexius was far, but not too far; she could rush him, maybe. Or, less suicidally, maybe she could signal Varric to ready Bianca. What shields could Alexius use that Solas wouldn't know how to dispel? Despite his stupid hat and grandstanding, he showed signs of age on his face. He was mortal, same as all the others she'd seen fall. She could kill him.

Her heart lurched. And then what? Then, she would have killed someone, directly, unquestionably. She grimaced. She never used to think this way. What'd happened to her?

After a moment's tense silence, Tony spoke. "You intend to trade these mages?"

"That entirely depends," said Alexius, "on what you have to trade."

Tony felt her lip curl. "I don't know the market price for a person. Enlighten me."

It was a weak barb, and did little more than amuse him. Tony watched his amusement fall from his face when his son, Felix, wobbled forward and stumbled into Tony. Without thinking, she held him steady--only after she'd done so did she think of letting him fall. When she felt the press of a slip of paper in her palm, she was glad she hadn't, but only barely. The only people in this room she trusted had come in with her.

Tony ended the pointless, infuriating conversation without stabbing anyone, and left with her party. They all dealt with their nerves in different ways. Cassandra grumbled, Solas lost himself in thought, and Varric...

"I'd heard that Redcliffe would smell fishy," said Varric.

Tony's anger was slightly eclipsed by exasperation. From the disgusted noise Cassandra made, she felt much the same.

"I'd say that Redcliffe has gone to the dogs, but--"

"Ugh."

"I got this from Felix," Tony said, holding up the paper. That both shut Varric up and got them thinking up a plan.

In the end, they decided to follow Felix's tip and go to the Chantry that night. Inside--what else?--a rift flared, menacing and oozing that same awful energy from the gate. And below the rift--

"What the fuck is happening?" Tony shouted, disrupting the rift with an aching fist. "Did we cross the border into Tevinter and I didn't notice?"

"Not quite," called the new magister. "Be a dear and seal this up, would you?"

It was another awkward, haunting battle, full of those impossible glyphs. Tony remembered a time, as if through a rosy filter, where magic had just been card tricks and top hats. And mustaches, she amended, catching another glance at their unlikely fighting companion. Highly manicured mustaches.

They managed, though, as they always seemed to. The rift closed, all the demons safely on the other side. The mustachioed stranger brought his staff to his back in a practiced twirl, then turned to face her.

"How does that work, exactly?" He smiled, facial hair twitching. "You don't even know, do you?"

"Forgive me for not immediately trading theories with the thousandth surprise Tevinter I've met today," she snapped. 

He didn't seem offended by the outburst. He carried on as he had been, looking amused and well-polished. "I think I do forgive you, at that. And how did your meeting with old Alexius go? Very well, I shouldn't think."

Tony took a deep breath, and began mentally counting up to ten.

"Fascinating," said the mage. "My tutors used to do that. You've got me feeling nostalgic."

"Jesus fucking Christ." She released the breath in an angry sigh. "Look. I'm tired. Riding a horse is tiring. Talking to Gereon Fucking Alexius is tiring. If you could keep the bullshit to a minimum, I would really appreciate it."

"Has anyone ever told you that, for the earthbound personification of Andraste, you have a very dirty mouth?"

She gave him a flat look.

"Oh, but where are my manners?" He gave a small bow, perfected to the degree. "Dorian of the house Pavus, formerly of Minrathous."

Tony searched her memory for the name, and came up blank. Either House Pavus wasn't important, or, as she suspected from his proud tone, the Inquisition's Ambassador wasn't up on her Tevinter nobility. "A pleasure to not have died, just now," she said. "I'm Antonia Gonzalez, formerly of California, currently at the end of my rope."

"I'd noticed," he said, still smiling.

Solas cut in, then. "Regardless of house name, you are a mage from Tevinter." It was an obvious observation, but he was looking at Tony when he said it. Urging her, perhaps, to keep her guard up.

"I am," said Lord Pavus, suddenly delighted. "A mage from Tevinter, but not a magister. Well done, you." Solas did not look pleased by the condescending compliment.

"Putting nomenclature aside for a moment," said Tony, arms now crossed, "what's all this about?"

Lord Pavus began to explain. The strange rifts were strange on purpose; time itself had been twisted into a knot, making it so Magister Alexius could get to Redcliffe and claim the mages before Grand Enchanter Fiona had ever even thought to meet with Tony. After a day of increasingly impossible things, Tony felt her credulity bent nearly to the breaking point.

"Time magic," she said. She looked at Solas, who was looking at Lord Pavus, face stern. No help from that quarter, then. Tony turned back to Lord Pavus as well. "Time magic," she repeated.

"Would that it were not so," he opined. "Unfortunately, Alexius' intelligence far outstrips his wisdom, and because of his experiment, the fate of the very world is at stake."

Tony rolled her shoulders, back aching from all the fighting and riding and standing on stone. "Right. That's new."

Lord Pavus tilted his head at a sympathetic angle. "No, it wouldn't be for you, would it? Unfortunately, this is the sort of danger that doesn't wait in the sky for you to get around to fixing it."

"Dorian."

Tony and Lord Pavus looked up as one. Felix had appeared from behind one of the Chantry's columns, and he descended the stairs to greet his friend. 

"Felix," said Lord Pavus. "Managed to slip away, did you?"

"Just in time to see you being rude to the Herald." Felix nodded to Tony. "My Lady. I'm grateful you've come."

"I was not being rude." 

Tony ignored Lord Pavus in favor of Felix. "Thanks for your note. No thanks for..." She waved her hand, encompassing the whole room. "The rest of it."

"Ah," said Lord Pavus, eyes glittering, "but you haven't yet heard the good news. I helped Alexius design this magic, and I can help undo it. I will help, in fact." His fingers danced, miming confetti falling. "And so you see, things are not nearly as grim as you'd imagined."

Cassandra scoffed. "We would be fools to accept."

Lord Pavus opened his mouth to reply, no doubt to pick the low-hanging fruit Cassandra had left. Tony interrupted him. "Where are you staying?"

Surprised by the question, he answered. "Outside of Redcliffe. A charming little camp--perhaps a smidge lonely, but I have suffered through worse."

"Right." Tony thought for a moment, then reached what she considered to be the obvious conclusion. "You're coming with us."

He laughed, bordering on snide. "Am I? What makes you so sure?"

That was the final straw for her. "Because if you don't, we leave you to clean up the mess alone." She raised her eyebrows at him, willing him to stop being so annoying. "The mess that you've just said you had a hand in making. The hole in the sky isn't going to wait forever, and if time magic is as real as you seem to think, I don't see why we can't come back to Redcliffe whenever we get the chance and zip back to this crisis point."

Color drained from Lord Pavus' face. Felix, already deathly pale, spoke up. "It is not so simple, my Lady Herald. Travelling that way for any distance, for any length of time, is dangerous."

"World-endingly dangerous," added Lord Pavus. He was no longer smiling. "I might be prone to dramatic hyperbole, but that... that part was true."

Tony let him hang there. In a backwards way, it reassured her to see him so unsettled. This was not the way he had wanted this conversation to go, that much was clear. Perhaps he'd thought that she would be easy to dazzle, or baffle, or trick. From his clothes, he was clearly new to the area. Perhaps he'd made it all the way to Redcliffe still assuming that Southerners were idiots, the way that Southerners thought Northerners were mustache-twirling murderers.

Lord Pavus had the mustache, but he also had the sense to be afraid. To volunteer, in his own weird way and for his own weird reasons, to help the Inquisition--fix the time problem, fix the mage problem. Recruit mages, seal Breach. Everybody wins.

"Lord Pavus," she said, breaking the silence she'd made, "please return with us to Haven. We will discuss this further once we arrive."

Of all the expressions he'd made, this new one was the most cartoonish: disgust, with a heavy dollop of shock. "Dorian," he said. "Please. Unless you're trying to give me a heart attack."

She gave him a small smile. "Not at the moment."

-

That night, long after Dorian had huffily retired into his poorly-erected tent, Tony finally finished reading The Tale of the Champion. It was a credit to Varric's skill as a storyteller that she could stomach it at all.

The Tale concerned Hawke, that mouthy mage from Lothering who'd gone to Kirkwall with her family to flee the Fifth Blight. Before even leaving Ferelden, she'd lost her sister Bethany to darkspawn; Shortly after landing in Kirkwall, she'd lost her brother Carver to the Grey Wardens. Her mother was murdered by a particularly brutal serial killer. After all of this, Anders, the mage Hawke had loved, blew up a Chantry and started the mage rebellion.

Not exactly light reading.

Tony went over the text with a proverbial microscope, trying to understand it on both a textual and metatexual level. Solas had been right to consider it sensationalistic and low-brow; there were too many story beats that reeked of narrative convenience for Tony to take it as gospel. She could imagine the liberties that Varric had taken, given both that she knew stories in general and she knew him specifically. The man was clearly a humorist, and when given the option between one punchline and one truth, he'd choose two punchlines.

As a history, as a memoir, it was disheartening. The Templars of Kirkwall had the viciousness and efficiency of an anti-magic secret police, and Knight-Commander Meredith's paranoia had been nurtured by the political powder-keg that was post-Blight Thedas. Fearing that Kirkwall would be overrun by dangerous magical refugees, Meredith had encouraged her Templars to go beyond their already horrifying "whatever it takes" philosophy in apprehending apostate mages. If Tony had been someone else--a member of the Kirkwall upper classes, for example, or a Loyalist mage that believed in the inherent good of the Circles--she would have understood the Draconian actions of the Templars. They had tried to "restore order" in a place where order was a foggy memory. Perhaps they saw themselves as the last line of defense against a barrage of chaos and magic, swarming up from the diseased and Blighted South.

But she wasn't, and they weren't. Meredith's Templars--the Templars in Kirkwall--had been butchers. It had been a long time since she'd thought of Tranquility as any sort of preferable alternative to magic, whereas Meredith had ordered mages to be made Tranquil for crimes equivalent to sneezing in a quiet room.

Meredith's Templars had been encouraged to commit atrocities, and if justice were possible, history would remember them as heartless monsters. Even the Knight-Captain, who had allied himself with Hawke in the end, was not exempt from Tony's judgement.

This Knight-Captain had been Meredith's right hand, much as Cassandra and Leliana had acted as the Hands of Divine Justinia. This Knight-Captain had said that mages could not be treated as people, instead likening them to tinder that could, at any moment, catch fire. This Knight-Captain had used his faith as an invincible shield against things like logic, or empathy, or the wails of frightened children.

Tony closed the book and tossed it onto her bedroll. Varric was a humorist, but he wasn't a liar. He wouldn't have made this up; he had no reason to. Not about the minor character Knight-Captain Cullen, anyway.

She pulled on her coat, blew out her lamp, and stepped out into the mist of the night. Redcliffe was in the lowlands of Ferelden. It wasn't warm, but it wasn't cold enough to maintain the constant frost of Haven, which was nestled somewhere in the pitch-black jaws of the Frostbacks to the west.

Varric had the watch before Tony's, and he was sitting by the smoking embers of the waning campfire. He didn't look up at her approach, nor when she sat next to him, wrapping her long coat around her knees for warmth. The damp in the air clung to them both, and gave Bianca an extra sheen of beaded water, almost as though it were sweating.

"Can't sleep?" Varric asked, gravelly voice barely above a whisper.

Tony hummed in the affirmative, hiding her hands up her sleeves. She looked up at the stars and swallowed, stomach swooping with vertigo. The sky was so vast, so clear, that she could practically see planets orbiting distant suns with her naked eyes. Her history with astronomy was limited to the North Star and Orion, but neither of those were present, of course. The night sky in Thedas was another language that she would have to learn.

"Did I ever tell you," she said, face tilted toward the sky, "about Shakespeare's play, Othello?"

Varric shifted his grip on Bianca. If he was looking at Tony, she couldn't tell. "Othello," he said, considering it. "Twelfth Night, yes. King Lear, yes--and I still think that Lear was about dwarves, not humans, by the way."

Tony smiled at the stars. "Even though there's no Dwarven Empire in California?"

"Details," he said. "Anyway... No, I don't think you've ever told me Othello."

She hadn't thought so. Tony took a breath, organizing the plot scene-by-scene in her mind, before beginning the story. "'Othello' is the name of the main character. He's a general--a skilled general, one of the best soldiers the Venetian army has to offer. His wife is named Desdemona." She paused and gave Varric a glance. "Do me a favor."

He grunted. "So long as I don't have to get up, sure."

"Desdemona is meant to be the perfect woman," Tony said. "Of course she's beautiful, but she's more than that--she's smart, she's educated, she's devoted to Othello even against her father's wishes. She's honorable. She..." She shook her head. "I could have just stopped at 'perfect,' I guess, but it's important that you have someone in mind. Do you?"

Varric was already still, and yet somehow Tony thought she saw him hesitate. He asked, "Is this your favor?"

"Yes," she said. "I want you to think of the perfect woman. Can you see her?"

There was another moment of stillness. Then, Varric leaned forward, squinting at Tony in the starlight. "Barely. It's dark, out here."

Tony snorted and looked away. "Thanks." She returned her focus to the heavens. "In the play, Othello and Desdemona have the perfect marriage despite their differences."

"Othello must be quite the guy," said Varric.

"He is." Tony removed her hands from her sleeves, drawing shapes in the air with her fingers. "In a lot of ways, he's as perfect as she is. He's the best general in Venice, but more than that, he's kind. He's trusting. He--" She swallowed, her fatigue tripping up her words. "If it were a different kind of story, he'd earn the happiest sort of ending. He's a hero."

A carbonized log fell in the campfire, ash making the embers smoulder and hiss. Varric said, "But it's not that kind of story."

"He doesn't know, though," she said. "The play Othello is a tragedy, but the man Othello doesn't know that. From Othello's perspective, there's no reason not to trust his advisors. There's no reason not to listen to his friends. When Iago--Othello's standard-bearer, one of his soldiers--when Iago says that Desdemona is having an affair, why would Othello doubt him?"

"I thought you said that Desdemona was perfect."

"She is," insisted Tony, "but again, Othello doesn't know that. He admires her--he loves her, how could he help but love her? But he isn't reading the story; he's part of it. So when Iago tells him that Desdemona isn't faithful to him, of course he's going to have doubts. Iago is one of his men. Why would Iago lie?"

Varric's mouth pursed as he thought over the question. "Lots of reasons. Othello is a general, but Iago isn't. Othello is married to Desdemona, but Iago isn't. There's lots of reasons for Iago to be jealous. To act on that jealousy."

Tony smiled into the darkness. "Ever the storyteller," she said. "But Othello isn't much of a reader, sadly. He's just a general." Varric didn't speak, so Tony continued. "He does what a general would do--what a soldier would do. He listens to Iago, and he confronts Desdemona. He makes a case against her, citing evidence that Iago gave him. For the first time in his marriage, he doubts that Desdemona is telling him the truth."

The night was quiet.

"Othello followed the rules," said Tony. "He listened. He cared, deeply, for both his wife and his soldiers. And when Desdemona couldn't prove her innocence, he acted. He was decisive. It was hard, but he didn't hesitate."

"Tony," said Varric. He sounded concerned.

"In their marriage bed," she said, hands clamped between her knees, "he killed her. He--he held one of their pillows against her face, and he smothered her." She swallowed. "After, he learned that he'd been tricked, that Desdemona was innocent. Again, he acted without hesitation. 'When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak of one that loved not wisely but too well; of one not easily jealous, but being wrought perplex'd in the extreme--"

"Tony," Varric said again. "Are you okay?"

"And he stabbed himself," she said. "He knew he'd murdered the perfect woman, and he judged himself guilty, and he killed himself for it." 

"He didn't know," said Varric. "He only had so much information."

Tony looked at him. "Are you thinking of her? Can you see her? Your Desdemona?"

Silence in the camp.

"I know," said Tony. "Logically, I know that he was doing what he thought was right. But intentions... can you hold an intention in your hand? What can you buy, with intentions?" She licked her lips, tasting the cold air and pre-morning dew. "He followed the rules. He trusted people who should have been trustworthy, but he still killed her. The perfect woman is still dead."

Varric stood. He hefted Bianca in his hands, holstering it to his back in one smooth, practiced motion. When he sat again, his leg was a warm, solid line against Tony's thigh. "I don't know what to tell you, Tony," he said. She sniffled, the tip of her nose cold and wet enough to drip. He continued to say, "I wish I could give you a happier story. I wish I knew if there had been an 'Iago' in the Order, turning the Templars against each other, forcing them to be paranoid and reckless, but I can't. Meredith had the red lyrium idol, and it drove her crazy." He nudged her knee with his. "As far as I know, he didn't have any contact with the red stuff. His actions were his own. And, in the end, he stood with Hawke. I can't speak to his intentions, but as for his actions? They were honorable, in the end."

"'In the end,'" Tony repeated, voice rough. "Is that enough?"

"Enough for what?" Varric's face was invisible in the night, but Tony could still feel his eyes on her. "Enough to excuse what he did in Kirkwall? Hardly. But life isn't as neat as a story, Tony. Life doesn't fit between two covers." She felt more than saw Varric shrug. "Othello killed himself. He couldn't handle what he'd done, and he chose not to live with it. But Curly? Curly's still around." His shoulders slumped. "Andraste's sacred knickers, Tony, what was he supposed to do? Throw himself onto the mercy of a random group of mages? They'd burn him alive and bicker over the bones. Are you saying--what are you saying?"

Tony hid her hands in her sleeves again. "I'm saying..." She frowned out at the horizon. Black trees met the dark blue sky, the border between them like a torn sheet of paper. "I'm saying I don't know if I can... forgive him. For what he's done."

He sighed, releasing a bit of tension. "I think he's on the fence about that, himself."

More silence. The hissing of the embers in the mist.

"You asked me for a favor," said Varric. "Can I ask you for one?" Tony nodded. "Talk to him about it. Ask him how he's doing. Maker knows I've tried, but these days, he's a lock I just can't pick."

Again, Tony nodded.

Time passed, and the sky grew lighter. Varric's watch was over, and he stood, hands pressed against the small of his back as he stood. His spine sounded like a pepper grinder. "I'm getting too old for this," he sighed, rolling his neck and shoulders. "Why'd I ever leave Kirkwall? They have beds there. Beds with mattresses."

"Hedonist," Tony accused, but without any heat. 

He retired to his tent, and left Tony to the slowly cresting dawn. She thought about perfection, and what it looked like to her. After a few hours of solitude, her only conclusion was that, when Perfection smiled, the curve of its lips was awkward on its face.

Chapter Text

Travelling with Dorian was, to put it lightly, awkward. He somehow managed to disrupt every single routine. He was loud when Solas was sleeping, he annoyed Cassandra with his casual blasphemy, and most egregiously of all, he didn't seem to find Varric funny. For the first few days, he and Tony did not speak more than necessary; most of the party did their best to ignore him, which made his mustache twitch. He must have had questions for her, and she did for him as well. Unfortunately, her thoughts were already a maelstrom, and she found it difficult to spare one for a man who could barely fold up a tent correctly.

She needed to, of course. Worrying about Kirkwall long after its fall meant nothing, now. Wondering how to steal a bunch of mages out from under not only their misguided Enchanter, but an actual Tevinter magister, was a fruitless thought exercise. Dorian should know something, but how could she trust what he said? Had she been right to bring him along? She'd been thinking of The Iron Bull and Leliana, people with training surrounding lies and deception, but maybe she'd been wrong. That, too, was pointless to worry about. She'd made the decision. She could hardly send him back to Redcliffe at this point.

While riding back to Haven, Solas brought his horse beside hers. "I would like," he announced, "to apologize."

Putting a mental bookmark in her musings, she looked over at him. "Oh?"

"I spoke out of turn," he said. "I regret what I said, and how it hurt you. You have always acted in the way you thought best, and because of your actions in the Fallow Mire, no more lives were lost. That was your priority." He nodded his head, just once. "I am sorry."

Tony's eyebrows raised over the course of the apology, surprised at its sincerity. "Forgiven," she said. "It's been ages, Solas. It's fine."

"I thank you."

They rode in silence for minutes, Solas seeming to lose himself in his own thoughts. Tony's fingers twitched on the reins. "And," she said, "you're apologizing to me now, because...?"

He sighed. "I apologized because you deserved an apology. You offered me friendship, and I have done little to earn it since."

Tony stared at him. He kept his eyes forward. Tony continued to stare.

After another minute, Tony prompted him with another, "And so...?"

He faced her again, frowning. Voice lowered to prevent being overheard, he said, "I disagree with your decision regarding the Tevinter mage."

"There it is." Tony had to smile, aiming it down at her horse's mane. Classic Solas. "Tell me why."

"I am surprised that you need an explanation." Solas' hands, still in perfect position on the reins, tightened. "He is a rogue agent from the center of the modern slave trade, at best. At worst, he is everything the Southern Templars fear: a blood mage, a malificarum, a murderer. You must know a little of the Tevinter Imperium, Antonia. Josephine would not leave such a gap in your knowledge."

You'd be surprised, she thought. After what happened with Ser Willow in the Fallow Mire, Tony no longer thought of Josephine's education as comprehensive. "I know he's here and not there," she said. "I know he said he wants to help. He hasn't tried to kill us yet."

Solas' mouth thinned. "Given the height of your usual standards, you are being unusually generous with him."

"Not really." She didn't owe Solas her thoughts--had, in fact, banned him from looking inside of her mind--but she might as well share these. "I'm forcing him to hang out with us, which he clearly doesn't like. He's sleeping on the ground with us unwashed barbarians. If he weren't at least a little sincere, he would have turned his horse around by now."

"It is possible," he said, "that you are underestimating the value of your goodwill. You are the Herald of Andraste--according to some," he amended, seeing Tony's sour expression at the reminder. "Many men would sleep in far worse conditions to gain your trust."

She gave him a smirk. "That's kind of sweet, Solas."

His amusement was barely visible, the line by his mouth barely an eyelash in size. "I did not intend for it to be."

Tony considered his advice, then looked back over her shoulder. Cassandra and Varric were staying under the shade of trees whenever possible. Dorian, as usual, had urged his horse into the sunshine, tipping his head back to reflect the full force of it against his face. His hair was unkempt, or as unkempt as it could manage with the amount of product weighing it down. His mustache made his absent frown almost comical.

Tony was rarely given flak for being too nice. It didn't sit well with her. Attention returned to Solas, she said, "Message received." He tilted his head, almost confused. "Go on ahead."

She tugged on her reins, urging her horse to slow to a lazy walk. Solas' own horse continued at its brisk pace, and though it did not pause, he looked back with a shadow of concern in his expression. Tony met it with a smile--they were still fine, the apology still accepted. Soon, Tony's horse was at a level with Dorian's, the man himself still close-eyed and miserable in the sunshine.

"So," she said. "What's your deal?"

He opened his eyes to give her a flat look. "My 'deal'?"

"Yeah." She shrugged, hands loose on the reins. Her horse could walk the trail without her guidance. "Fancy guy like you, long way from home, plotting against his former teacher? I'm curious."

"You haven't been so far." He frowned at her. "Are you attempting to gather information about me? If so, you're doing a terrible job."

Tony shrugged. "Sure. Enjoying the sunshine?"

"What little there is," he groused. "It can be high noon in the South and still feel like a winter's morning."

Tony managed a smile. "Before I came here, I'd never seen snow in person."

He looked at her. "And where were you, before you came here?"

"Haven't you heard?" He didn't shake his head, but he didn't say anything, either. "California. Outside of Thedas. Way outside, we think."

He hummed. "I had heard that, in fact. Not that I believed it."

"And now?"

"Now, I am considerably more confused." Dorian glanced at her, then focused on ahead. "You don't strike me as a liar, but that could simply be a sign that you're a very good one."

Her smile grew more genuine. "I've heard that before. Over time, people tend to believe me." His eyes narrowed, but he did not look at her. "I say the wrong thing, or do something dumb. No one can be 'on' all the time, you know."

"I do," he said. "Perhaps you revert to your barbaric Fereldan ways once I've fallen asleep."

"And maybe I blink when you blink, so it looks like I never close my eyes." She shook her head. "Sounds like a lot of work."

"It does." She watched his forearms relax, leaving the steering to his steed. "And yet."

They travelled in surprisingly comfortable silence for some time. Tony let her thoughts return to their well-worn mental tracks: mages, Templars, lyrium, dwarves. When they passed a field of druffalo, she watched Dorian tense up again. At her questioning look, he shook his head. "Not used to--them," he said. "Horses are fine, but those... they have odd eyes, I think."

"Kind of blank, right?"

"Is benign conversation truly your aim, or are you up to something?"

Tony shrugged. "Just trying to pester you out of pouting."

"I--pouting?" He was so affronted that his horse got confused, taking the tightening of his grip on the reins as a cue to halt. He nudged the steed forward, impressive eyebrows furrowed. "I am not pouting, Herald Antonia Gonzalez."

She floated on, blithely looking over the druffalo. "My mistake."

"Of all the ridiculous things to say, you've single-handedly found the most ridiculous option. Or was it not single-handed? Perhaps you and your cronies have been conspiring this entire journey--I wouldn't put it past you." He glared at the road ahead, still there, still straight, still boring. "That elven apostate of yours, Solas--he hated me on sight, no doubt in advance of my correct opinions regarding his appalling state of dress. Your entire coterie shares a disdain for fashion, I cannot help but notice. I wish I could help noticing; my head would ache far less."

Tony glanced at Dorian's bare shoulder, then back at the druffalo.

"How dare you!" His mustache was twitching into a smile. "And Cassandra--I've never seen a Chantry Sister so devoted to violence in my life. But she's not quite a Sister, is she? She's a Seeker--a position fabricated solely in the South, I need hardly remind you. In Tevinter, you would be hard-pressed to find a Templar with a fancy title like that."

"She's not a Templar," said Tony, keeping her tone light.

"Oh, no," he agreed, practically leaking sarcasm. "A Seeker, not a Templar--entirely different things! One might as well compare apples to slightly greener apples." He shook his head, disgusted by the world at large. "And Varric Tethras, of all people. I knew he had a flair for the dramatic, as would anyone who's read his work, but one would think his acquaintance with the Champion of Kirkwall would have put him off fool adventures for the rest of his life."

"You could ask him." She gave Dorian a small smile. "He's a friendly person."

"He's a wiley person, Antonia, and I don't fancy finding myself a caricature in his next novel." They trotted along. Dorian glared at a stone in the road, and at a fence. After a minute, he glared at Tony. "Why are you talking to me?"

"Why not? We're travelling together. Are you that unused to people wanting to talk to you?" She let her eyes flick over his outfit. "Actually, don't answer that."

He scoffed, almost a laugh. "Clearly you do not recognize good taste. Having been down here for as long as you have, I can hardly blame you. I am dressed in some of the most coveted fashion of the season."

"I mean, you must be. 'Trendy' makes sense, given how flattering it isn't."

"Whereas you are dressed as... what, exactly?" He gave her jerkin a critical gaze. "A tanner's addled servant?"

Tony did laugh, then. "'Tanner.' Interesting choice. If you're trying to convince me you have a problem with leather, you've got an uphill climb ahead."

His mood shifted, humor leaching to nearly nothing. "Is that what this is about? And here I thought the South was meant to be quite libertine, in comparison to home." His frown returned, a line between his manicured eyebrows. "Perhaps I should have expected this. You are a religious figure."

"Liber--Jesus." Tony held up a hand, horrified. "No. I think you look like a prick, but I don't care what you do with yours. Or whom."

And just like that, the shadow passed. The delicate quirk to his mouth returned. It wasn't quite a smile, but it warmed his eyes. "Civilized of you."

She snorted. "Are you sure you don't want to be a caricature?"

They ran down the list of insults together. He called her hair "a nest for birds without standards," and she called his "the result of the barber sneezing." He said she had the manners of "a Carta thug fired for vulgar behavior;" she said he "might as well have 'only child' tattooed on [his] forehead." He mentioned the gray strands in her hair, and she pointed out that his hairline looked to be on the retreat. By the time they were stopping to water the horses and stretch, they had progressed to phrases instead of full sentences.

"Spoiled brat," she said, then held out a waxed cloth bundle of dried herring and pickled purslane. "Hungry?"

"Please." He accepted the bundle and pulled out a strip of fish. "Ignorant savage."

She helped him put the feed bag on his horse. He started to say something that sounded suspiciously like "thank you," and she cut him off with, "Tevinter mage."

He blinked. "Proudly. That's hardly an insult."

"But it is a problem." Tony reached her arms up, stretching her back, then reached down to touch her toes. As always, she fell short, but it was the thought that counted. Once she resurfaced, she began to roll her shoulders. "For me. And you, potentially, once we get to Haven."

He seemed sobered by this. "Are you so old," he said, looking at her with concern, "that you require such athletics simply from riding a horse?"

Tony rolled her eyes. "You'll wish you'd stretched a bit more after you lose a foot from gout. I'm serious, Dorian."

"What an unfortunate thing to be." He took a bite of food--without grimacing, notably enough. He always grimaced at meals, no matter what was in his bowl. "I had never anticipated a particularly warm welcome to your Inquisition, Antonia. I'm aware of local popular opinion."

She put her hands out by her side, lifted her right foot and gave her ankle a few rotations. "It's not 'my' Inquisition, first of all. Secondly, you can help." At his raised eyebrow, she explained. "You said it yourself, you helped Alexius with the time magic thing. We could use an insider's opinion on that. Plus, there were Tevinter mages along the Storm Coast not too long ago. Maybe they were part of the same cult." She switched ankles. "I'm not from Ferelden, but I'm also aware of local opinion, and local opinion fucking hates foreign invasion. Like, more than average. I blame Orlais, personally."

"You'd be right to." He gave her back the paper bundle, expression pensive. "What is it that you expect of me? I assume you're asking for some sort of favor."

Tony, stretches finished, crossed her arms and looked Dorian in the eyes. They were nice eyes--gray, the kohl on the lashlines making the whites brighter, the color more striking. He raised an eyebrow at her in an expression she imagined he'd practiced in a mirror. She knew what he wanted her to see, and she considered the intricacy of the disguise. How his facial hair aged him up those few necessary years, going from college student to college staff. Maybe it worked on most people. It did not work on her.

"Keep your mouth shut, if you can," she said. As he began to puff up like an offended cat, she explained, "Don't give them a reason to hate you beyond what you represent. You won't be able to help us if someone stabs you."

"You want my silence?" He brought a hand to his breastbone. "My silence? When I am ever so charming and handsome?" He studied her. "Am I to understand that this friendly bout of verbal sparring was... what? To get it out of my system?"

"Pretty much." She put her left boot in her stirrup and swung a leg over her horse. "Better you saying shit like 'your elven apostate' to me than Solas."

"Hmph." He mounted his steed again as well, sweeping back his hair with a practiced rake of his fingers. "Holding accuracy against me, now?"

"This might be a tricky concept for you," she said, an edge to her tone, "but Solas doesn't belong to anybody. He is no bird and no net ensnares him, to paraphrase Charlotte Brontë."

"I didn't mean that," he said, voice pitching higher with offense, "and I've never met this Charlotte person, nor heard of them. What I meant is simply--he's a member of your--of the Inquisition, is he not? He's certainly no Circle mage. Southern Circles are different, but they can't be that different."

It took some doing to look down her nose at Dorian, but she made the effort. "You are really certain about a bunch of shit you know absolutely nothing about, aren't you?"

He scowled at the road ahead. After a beat of silence, he said, "Ructatrix."

"Pinche estúpido."

And so they travelled on. 

-

Dorian's horse slowed to a crawl as he approached the gates of Haven. Tony looked back, confused until she saw his face tilted skyward. It caused her to study it, as well, trying to see it with fresh eyes.

Solas had said it was stable. She had to trust his word on that, because her eyes played tricks on her. Just as clouds seemed to move in the sky when she stared at them, so too did the Breach seem to expand, green light flickering along its boundaries, a perpetual firework that seemed to dim the daylight sky around it. It was enormous, ragged, and charred, as if God had stubbed out His cigar on the floor of Heaven.

"It's... rather bigger than I'd thought," he said. His face was blank, his voice light, but the fear in his eyes betrayed him. 

Tony reached out a hand and patted him on the arm. "That's what she said."

"Oh--lovely," he spat. "The largest hole in the Veil Thedas has ever seen, let's all make raunchy jokes about it."

"Funny raunchy jokes," she countered, and then she saw The Iron Bull.

He saw her as well. Bull was always difficult to read, and he was currently still meters away. Still, Tony saw his face go blank, and she thought she recognized the reaction. It was the way Bull transitioned from the kind of man who talks and the kind of Qunari who kills. She'd seen it in the Fallow Mire, the way his maul would become an extension of his arms, and how in return he would become an extension of his maul. Bull looked at Dorian with all the empathy of a blade on the downswing.

"Cullen," Bull said.

The Commander, running the troops as always, turned to see her. There was an instant of recognition, a smile that almost bloomed. Then, he too saw the man riding next to her. Tony looked away before she could see his face fall.

Dorian hadn't quite frozen, but only because his horse had to breathe.

Cullen marched over, hand on his sword. "Right." He squared his shoulders, ignored Dorian, and looked to Tony. "Walk with me."

Tony hopped off her horse. Dorian turned to look at her, whites visible all around his irides. "What? Where are you going?"

Cassandra, Solas, and Varric were already at the stables. Tony handed off her reins to the nearest runner--Lilan, it turned out. She smiled a greeting at them before answering Dorian. "He's not going to eat you. Drop off your horse and do what he says."

He looked back over at The Iron Bull, who had not moved but to cross his arms. "You're certain?" Dorian babbled. "Is he a vegetarian? You do seem very certain."

"I am certain," said Tony. "I'm right about everything, all the time. It's my burden. Now go."

She left Dorian to his crisis and began walking alongside Cullen, their direction somewhat toward the distant logging stand. He didn't seem to want to talk, which wasn't altogether unusual. She gestured behind her and said, "That's--"

"Dorian Pavus," he said, finishing the thought for her. "I know. We received word from Redcliffe in advance of your return."

She tried to smile at him. "From the spies that definitely aren't spying on me?"

He didn't seem to hear her. Cullen looked as though he and sleep were no longer on speaking terms. He had a hand at his brow, covering some but not all of his deeply troubled expression. "That man," he said, "both admits to being a Tevinter mage as well as being integral to this--this 'time magic.' He claims he is no longer allied with that Magister, but has provided no evidence other than his word." His hand drops, revealing his frown. "And you thought to bring him here?"

Tony winced. "Well... yeah." Cullen released an exasperated sigh, but she pushed on. "I figure--we have a spymaster, we have a Ben-Hassrath agent. We have ways of figuring out if he is who he claims, and since he knows Alexius personally, he could help us come up with a plan to save the mages."

"Save them," he says, voice flat.

"Or ally with them," said Tony. "Whichever. Both. You heard about the time magic already, and if you don't believe it, Cassandra can tell you more." Cassandra, who had been very quiet all the way back to Haven. At least Tony didn't have to wonder who'd sent word ahead. "Or she already told you. Just--"

"Lady Antonia." He stopped walking and turned to her, the expanse of frozen lake behind him. "I--we were under the impression that you wished to reach out to the Templars for aid with the Breach. There are some members of local nobility who expect--"

"Don't care," Tony cut him off. Why would he of all people mention nobles? "Sorry, but that's not the priority. I'll send them an apology, or something." She looked up at him, amazed. "Did I not mention the part where a Tevinter magister has claimed a bunch of mages as his slaves?"

"That does not clarify matters as much as you seem to think it should."

Tony put her hands on her hips. "Yes, it does."

He glared at the snow. "Petulance will not serve you here."

"Jesus." She pushed a loose lock of hair back. "What happened while I was gone? Cullen--Commander, there is a foreign military power on Fereldan soil. Now do you care?"

There was a flash of annoyance on his face, stark and sudden as lightning. "Why do you--" He cut himself off. "Must you always be so antagonistic?"

Tony threw up her hands. "I'm not antagonistic, you fucking dope!" He laughed, a bark of a sound. Frustrated, she raked a hand through her hair, pushing loose curls out of her face. "I'm trying to help, and you're lecturing me, and I don't even know why!"

"I'm trying to tell you why, my Lady." She silenced, expression mutinous. He said, "Those nobles you don't care about--some of them are here. To meet you." She opened her mouth to ask one of a dozen questions, but nothing came out but a frustrated grunt. After a moment, he continued. "You're a mystery to them--to most people--and Josephine seems to believe they'd respond well to... preferential treatment."

Tony squinted at him. "So this is a warning?"

"Of a sort." He brought a hand to the back of his neck, working out some of the tension that lived there. "Leliana planned for this to be an ambush, but I didn't see the point. You certainly can't be seen with Magister Pavus, however. We'll have to turn him away."

"What--no!" She put her hands on her hips and dug in her proverbial heels. "The situation in Redcliffe is a clusterfuck, we need his information to help them!"

He was no longer simply tired. He was angry; Tony feared he was angry with her. "We have received a report from the scouts at Therinfal," he said. "They have reason to believe that, despite our efforts, there has been no lyrium shortage for the Templars. Either the Dwarven Empire isn't heeding our requests, or the Carta has circumvented our attempts to cut Therinfal off." He looked at her, eyes burning. "And instead of returning to confer with us about this plan, about your plan, you have brought a Tevinter magister to Haven and, to all appearances, mean to leave the Templars to their fate. How could you possibly have thought this to be a good idea?"

Tony's eyes were wide. "I--I thought we could... collaborate. They need us, Cullen. It's the right thing to do, to work together with Dorian on a plan--"

"To save the mages," he finished, "from their own poor decisions." He sighed, face pinched. "The world does not turn on your moral principles, my Lady. When last we met with the others in the Chantry, you said you wished to join the Inquisition more formally. I wonder what you thought that meant, as you clearly have not modified your behavior."

Her behavior. As if she were a dog that had shit on the carpet. "Excuse me?"

"You sent those scouts to Therinfal. Because our soldiers have been kept safe from battle, the people of Ferelden have suffered--you have urged us to take no risks, and it has not been without consequence." He brought both hands to the pommel of his sword. "The only group you have not managed to annoy are the Avvar, and they make a point not to help us 'lowlanders' with anything. Being a member of the Inquisition means that you are a member, not--whatever this is." He looked at her with poorly disguised disappointment. It made her feel like he was digging out her guts with a melon baller. "You were the one who urged us to work as a team. Why does that criticism not also apply to you?"

He was angry with her. He was disappointed in her actions, which meant that he'd had expectations of her that she'd failed to meet. She'd thought that seeing him again after reading the Tale would make her question him, not herself. "None of you trust me," she said.

"We are trying," he told her. "You have made it very, very difficult. You must know that."

She swallowed. "You--you specifically said... You said you wanted to be kind to me."

His face softened, but not by much. "And you never told me how."

There was a sinking feeling in what remained of her stomach.

"You have asked a great deal of us," he said. "You've held us to a high standard, which I understand. But you pointed us toward the Templars, and we heeded your advice. To renege on the offer now... It makes us seem..." The scar on his mouth went from pink to silver as he quirked his mouth, a pale imitation of a smile. "Well-intentioned incompetents."

Those were clearly not his words; she could hear Josephine in them. Tony swallowed her first response to that, as it was simply telling him to go fuck himself. Her next response was manic laughter, which she also held back. After a moment's consideration, she crossed her arms over her chest and squeezed her biceps, cold in the snow.

"I do not mean to lecture," he said. The anger seemed to have left him. "And I respect what you are trying to do. I only wondered if you knew how... how things have appeared from the outside."

"Are you?" She looked up, studying his face. "On the outside?"

He frowned. "Outside the Inquisition?"

"No." She brought a gloved hand to her nose, scratching it at the bridge, willing her frown to soften. She didn't want to be glaring at him. It just sort of happened. "Outside of... me. My thoughts, my decision-making processes."

Cullen released a breath through his nose. There was sarcasm in his voice when he said, "Most of us are. I can't say you've let me in, my Lady. All I know for certain is that you--you can get quite angry with me." He looked away. "Not without reason."

Could that really be it? All that worry about making him uncomfortable, caring about him too much, and he thought she didn't like him? She brought a hand to her face, covering her eyes before pinching the bridge of her nose. She felt that a weight had been added to her back. All that time spent agonizing about his thoughts, and they could be summarized in one sentence: you can get quite angry with me. Was she such an amazing actor, or was he simply blind to things that weren't military strategy?

She zoomed out of herself, considering the many different strings of worry she'd been plucking at over the last few weeks. The Templars were following a madman. The mages had been sold as slaves by their leader. These were the problems she should be focusing on. Could she afford, at this point, to spend time sighing over the Commander of the Inquisition?

Most importantly, wasn't his obliviousness, in one way or another, an answer to her unasked question? He didn't feel the same way. He'd have to be a completely different person to feel the same way. The person he currently was cared about things that actually mattered. She needed to get on that page, too. Lives were on the line.

When she resurfaced, his eyes were still downcast, jaw tense. "Hey." He looked back up at her. "I get angry with everyone. Don't take it personally."

His expression implied she was insane, but he was interested in humoring her. "Is that not exhausting?"

Tony smiled. "You're going to talk to me about exhaustion, now?" He smiled, and it did a lot to ease her anxiety. She made a promise to herself then: shut up about Cullen. It was all in her head, same as most other romantic interests she'd had. "I haven't given up on the Templars, you know."

"I didn't, actually." He looked at her boots instead of her face. "After that boy--Martin--and then Ser Willow..."

"Learning experiences," she said. "My mistakes. I'm getting better." After so much time away, she'd forgotten who he truly was. Not Cullen the Adonis, nor Cullen the Templar. Just Cullen the man. Someone who snorted when he laughed and had no idea when a woman was--well. Who cared about that? Not her. Not anymore.

The only solution she could see to this was continued exposure. Maybe with enough of it, she'd stop noticing the artful arch of his nose, as well as everything else. She nodded to herself. "Time to make a decision or three. You want in on the process? I could use your advice."

His surprise was obvious, from his expression to the tension all up his spine. "I... yes."

"Great." She walked past him, swatting him on the arm in a semi-friendly way as she did. Beautiful bastard. "First order of business is to find Dorian a place to sleep where he won't get strangled on principle."

Easier said than done. In the ten minutes Tony had been away, Dorian had acquired a black eye.

"Vandalism," he said. "Better to burn a tapestry than to do this."

Tony picked up a handful of fresh snow and offered it to him. "Who did it?"

"Do you know, there weren't any introductions." He accepted the handful, pressed it into a proper snowball, then brought it to his eye. "Appalling manners."

She looked to Bull, then. "And, what? You just let it happen?"

He shrugged in a tectonic gesture of indifference. "He was on my left. I didn't see it, either. Just heard the noise."

Tony sighed and looked to Cullen. "Where's safe?"

Cullen didn't look all that happy to be included, suddenly. "He does not deny what he is."

Dorian straightened his posture. "'He' is right here." He gave Cullen a once-over. He did not appear impressed. "And 'he' has no reason to deny his birthplace nor his abilities. Certainly not to you--'commander,' was it? Of what army?" His lip curled as he pointed with his chin. "That one? Adorable. I've seen more threatening men launder my bedsheets."

The Commander's mouth twisted into a peevish frown. "The dungeon should be acceptable."

Tony's sigh was almost a growl. "What is with Chantry types and imprisonment? Jesus!" She grabbed Dorian's bag, then Dorian's arm, and began to march him toward her cabin. "You're bunking with me, idiot."

"Unhand me, you bossy little woman!" To Cullen, he said, "Is she like this with everyone?"

Cullen cleared his throat and, perhaps wisely, did not answer.

Tony looked over her shoulder at the Commander. "Where are they?" She asked, meaning the nobles.

Cullen caught on quickly. "In the Chantry."

"Then we can't be in the Chantry." Tony considered her surroundings. "This'll do. While we have the daylight, at least."

They gathered chairs and set them between her cabin and Solas'. Cullen brought over a small table, on loan from the quartermaster. The Iron Bull sat beside Dorian, his body easily hiding the mage from view of passersby. Tony flagged down every runner she could see, asking them to please invite certain people, please bring a hammer and nails, please tell Sera to run interference, please tell Blackwall to take over the soldier's drills. "I need all the former Templars," she said. "And--since Madame Vivienne is invited, would you mind finding a chair that isn't total crap?"

"Madame Vivienne?" Dorian sat up in his crap chair, still holding snow to the bruise on his face. "As in, 'former Enchanter to the Orlesian Court' Madame Vivienne? This Inquisition is practically a who's who of Southern Thedas. Next you'll tell me you've got King Alistair sleeping in the stables."

"I might," said Tony, flipping through her journal, "but only because lying's fun. Can someone heal this guy, please? Don't make him a martyr without cause." A runner went to get a healer, and Tony refocused on her writing. "'A mineral, energy seemingly that of the Fade; neither liquid nor crystal, though mined as any other vein'--so how are they getting it? Carta? Someone get Varric from the tavern." She put her finger in to save her place before closing it. "In the meantime--The Iron Bull, what have you heard from the former Templars here?"

He tilted his horns to one side, then the other. Dorian slouched down in his seat to avoid them. "Not all that much, Boss. They tend to keep to themselves. If you want an Andrastian perspective, I'd recommend Ser Lysette."

"Lysette?" That was Cullen, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "She's never mentioned her faith to me."

Bull kept his face impassive. "Yeah," he said, tacitly implying tons. 

"You're her boss, Cullen," said Tony, "and back when you had a Templar title, you outranked her. Why would she have shared it with you?" She raised an eyebrow. "You two friends?"

Cullen's face went slightly pink, but it was always slightly pink from the cold, and Tony was not currently trusting her observations about him. "Not exactly," he said. "Only--she's never attended service that I've seen."

Ernis returned from fetching drinks. As he set down bottles of wine and ale, Tony asked, "Thanks, and also, question." He nodded to her. "Are Orlesian Chantry services very different from Fereldan ones?"

He scoffed a laugh, then disguised it as clearing his throat, coughing into his fist. "Yes, Your Worship. Ah, very different."

Tony thanked him, then asked him to please extend an invitation to Cassandra. Once he'd left, she turned back to Cullen, Bull, and Dorian. "That might explain it," she said. "Her father's from Denerim, but there's no arguing with that accent."

"Nor that armor," added Cullen. He seemed satisfied. "I would be curious to hear what she has to say."

"What who has to say?" That was Varric, approaching from the west with a flagon in his hand. "What is all this? Not the most welcoming environment for a party. It's freezing out here."

"Finally, someone talks sense," muttered Dorian--muttering, but still loud enough for everyone to hear.

Tony shook her head. "We can't use the communal fire, it's right by the entrance gate." She smiled at Varric. "I'm hiding."

Varric looked around the assembled group, eyes lingering on Bull. "This is you hiding?"

"I didn't say I was doing it well. Pull up a chair, Tethras."

It didn't take long for every chair to fill. Along with Cullen, Bull, Dorian, and Varric, there was Cassandra, Vivienne, Lysette, Irving, Ernis, Krem, Dalish, Rylen, Minaeve, and a Chantry sister named Albreda. There were snacks, drinks, and the beginnings of a small campfire in front of the first row of chairs. Tony stood, pacing on the far side of the seats, examining her notes in the setting sun and thinking of how to explain.

"Here's the deal, gang," she began. "I understand that things are already in motion. That I helped put them in motion. I still believe that the Templars would help us to seal the Breach, and that we owe it to them to reach out and ask." She took a breath, staring into the fledgling fire. "But as an Inquisition... As a group, as an organization, as the one power in the South that isn't currently in pieces--I want to help the mages, too." She looked up and caught Dorian's eye. "Dorian--without standing, please--would you please tell us about the situation in Redcliffe?"

"Without standing?" He crossed his legs at the ankle. "Am I to be your dirty little secret, Antonia?"

"You're hilarious," she said, dry as a bone. "Start talking."

Dorian gave her a smile that seemed to say "yes, I am hilarious, thank you for noticing." Only then did he launch into an explanation. Mindful of his audience, he didn't go into too much detail about his involvement in the development of the magic, but he did mention its effects, both short and long term. His description of the Veil warping made everyone go quiet. It was hard not to look at the Breach as he spoke.

Once he finished, Tony spoke up again. "Thanks." He gave a sarcastic little seated bow, which she ignored. "So I want to help. We need to get the mages out of Redcliffe, but--Madame Vivienne, how would you describe the Veil in Haven?"

She brought her fingers to the empty air, twisting them as though feeling curtains for quality. Mist sprang up between them, finally crystalizing into a polygon of ice the size of her palm. In another gesture, it vanished into vapor. "Taut," she said. "Stretched. Not unlike what Lord Pavus has described in Redcliffe."

"Are there wards?" Tony flipped through her journal, coming to a conversation that she'd had with Solas more than a month ago. "To strengthen the Veil?"

"None which are as reliable as Templar abilities," said Cullen. It wasn't exactly a dismissal, though.

"But there are some," said Tony. 

Ser Lysette raised a hand, bringing Tony's attention to her, followed by everyone else's. Seeming somewhat embarrassed by the attention, she said, "They are not long-term protections, Your Worship. Circles were built in places where the Veil could be reinforced, but wherever the Fade can be accessed by a mage, that mage is in danger. Even going without sleep does not guarantee safety."

Tony tapped her nose with the feathered end of her pen. "So this really isn't an either-or situation, is it? To keep the mages safe--"

"Safe from what?" This was Dorian, visibly pushed beyond his patience. "Everyone knows that the greatest threat to a mage is a bigot with a sword. Not the Fade, of all things. What nonsense!"

Bull turned, horns nearly hitting the side of Tony's cabin. "Don't be an idiot, 'Vint. We don't want a flood of demons coming through and possessing everybody right as we try to seal the hole in the sky. Or do your people pretend abominations don't exist, along with the blood magic?"

Dorian sneered up at him. "Better possessed than shackled and mutilated--"

"To keep the mages safe," cut in Tony, voice raised and dangerously sharp, "we need Templars at the ready. Ser Rylen, how many Templars do we currently have in Haven?"

He nearly jumped, clearly not expecting to be called on. "Er. Including me?" Tony nodded. "Well, now... fifteen? Sixteen? Somewhere around there."

"Dorian, how many mages are currently in Redcliffe?"

He glared at her, which she met with a stony expression. He looked away when he answered, "At least eighty. Not counting the Tranquil."

Tony nodded. "Thanks. Commander Cullen, how do you feel about that ratio?"

"Not optimistic," he said. There was a hardness to his expression that Tony chose not to worry about. "It only takes one possessed mage to cut down an entire unit. Under the Breach... even if Templars outnumbered them two to one, we wouldn't have a guarantee."

She gave him a small smile. "We never do." He nodded in recognition. Tony looked back out at the assembled audience and put her hands on her hips. "Here's what it looks like to me. Both the Templars and the mages have been failed by their leadership. Both the Templars and the mages are suffering losses from this war. There are no Circles, meaning the mages have nowhere to go; the Order has split from the Chantry, meaning that Templars have nowhere to go, either. There have been significant losses on both sides, and no official conversations about surrender." She checked for nodding, checking that she wasn't saying anything stupid. "The Inquisition has been denounced by the Chantry, too. If anyone could help broker peace between these two groups, it's us. But the hole in the sky comes first. So." She smiled with a bravery she imagined she should be feeling. "How do we do it?"

No one seemed eager to start the conversation. However, Tony had dealt with silent classrooms before. From the table, she picked up a sheet of paper. Using her journal as a flat surface, she wrote Templars at the top in her neatest Trade runes. She hammered the paper to the side of her cabin, the way she would have pinned something to a corkboard back home.

"Why do people become Templars?" Tony began to make a bullet-pointed list. "Shout it out. Varric?"

"Uh." She looked over to see him scratching his stubble. "Faith?"

Faith, she wrote. 

"Steady work," said Ser Rylen. "Steady meals."

"The pay's good," said runner Irving. "In some areas, it's the best-paying available, short of mercenary jobs."

Slowly, they built a profile of a Templar. Educated, Andrastian, strong, well-trained, healthy, purpose-driven--a sort of superhero chosen by the Maker. Tony didn't have to be called "Herald" to know that most of this was bullshit. She put stars next to the things the Inquisition could cover just as well as the Order: the pay, the food, the purpose. Potentially, the faith.

She picked up another paper and wrote Mages.

"Circle mages, darling." Vivienne, sitting primly on the one cushioned chair they could find, studied the Templar list as she spoke. "They are a distinct breed."

"Right. Thanks." Circle Mages, she amended. "And they don't have a choice about becoming a mage. Do they have--or, did they have a choice about joining a Circle?"

"Not at all," said Sister Albreda. "The Circles existed for the safety of all the Maker's children."

Ser Lysette shifted in her seat before speaking, armor clinking as she did. "That was the reason for their founding," she said. "But given what's happened..."

Tony looked away from her notes, giving Lysette her full attention. "You mean the Circles failing?"

The Templar's expression shuttered. "The Circles didn't fail, Your Worship. The mages rebelled against their own protection. That goes against the Maker's will. 'Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.'"

Dorian snorted. Tony ignored him. "'Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children,'" added Tony. "But what about the ones who haven't?"

Blank stares. Vivienne said, "I'm not certain I understand your point, dear."

"'They who have turned it against His children' are no good," she explained. "I get that. But what if you have the gift, and then you don't turn it against anybody? Is there no concept of 'innocent until proven guilty' when it comes to using magic?"

"A pleasant thought," said Vivienne. "Though naïve."

Cassandra nodded, though didn't look pleased about agreeing. "Innocence and guilt have nothing to do with magic. Being a mage is not a crime. It is a curse."

Again, Dorian made a dismissive noise. Tony glared at him. "Can I help you?"

"Maker, I hope so," he said. Then, as an afterthought, "Apologies, Sister."

Sister Albreda shrugged. "I'm from Highever, Ser. I've heard quite a bit of blasphemy in my day."

Dorian smiled at her, though it did not reach his eyes. "Marvelous. You're about to hear some more." He leaned forward, hands dancing as he spoke. "As charming as all this is, what you must understand is that the Southern Circles no longer exist for a reason. Everything else is semantics, and while I do enjoy splitting a good hair, now is hardly the time. They were an experiment, funded by the Southern Chantry and staffed with pious thugs, and as an experiment, yes, they failed. As you've just quoted, Antonia, according to the Maker, magic is a gift. Your Seeker's bias is as disappointing as it is unsurprising." He shrugged expansively, arms wide. "So we see what happens when the Maker's words are twisted and His children imprisoned. Namely, bad things."

Tony looked to Bull. His face was impassive, the metal of his eyepatch catching the light of a torch. His mouth was set in a line. She could see that he was restraining himself, but from what, she didn't know.

He did provide inspiration, though. "This all presumes that the Maker exists."

The effect was instantaneous. The Sister recited a bit of Chant, seemingly on reflex. Ser Lysette bowed her head and clasped her hands together, as though meaning to start praying right there. Varric laughed, awkward and self-conscious, while Bull grumbled something in Qunlat. For her part, Tony grabbed a glass and poured herself some beer.

"Of course He exists!" Cassandra exclaimed. "While you may not yourself believe--"

"I'm not the only atheist in Thedas," said Tony. She took a sip before continuing. "I'm not even the only atheist in Haven. The decisions the Inquisition makes affect everyone, no matter what they believe. That's why we're having this conversation in the first place." She caught Cullen's eye, saw his furrowed brow, and matched it with her own. "I'm not asking the Maker to tell us who to help. If He exists, He's made it abundantly clear that He'd want us to help ourselves."

Ser Rylen began, "The Order--"

"When did I ask about the Templar Order, Knight-Captain?" Tony put her hands on her hips. "I didn't. I asked about Templars, speaking of distinctions." She nodded to her notes. "The Order has denounced the Inquisition and has gone entirely independent. I'm not convinced that individual Templars agree with what the Order has done. Isn't that why you're here?" She turned her attention to Ser Lysette, who was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable. "Didn't you take vows to uphold the ideals of the Chantry? To protect mages from themselves? Commander Cullen, here's my question: what is a Templar without faith?"

He met her eyes. Perhaps he'd been asked this question before, because his response was instantaneous. "Just a man."

"A man with a sword," she said. "And armor, and a first-rate education, and enough money to strike out on his own. Someone who has a choice." She tore the Templars page off the wall. "We've tried the stick, so let's try the carrot. Tell them to come here. We've got the food, pay, lyrium, and purpose they need. By rights, they should be here. The Maker wants them to guard mages, and we're about to have a shitload."

"And if they refuse our invitation?"

Tony balled up the paper and tossed it to him. "Then they're just men," she said. "I ignore those all the time." There was a small ripple of laughter, as if the group were slightly too nervous to unclench. Tony mimed grabbing two fistfuls of invisible skirt and curtseyed. "Thanks for your attention. Stick around for drinks. Cassandra and Cullen, could I get a quick word with you?"

They met a few steps away from everyone else. People were talking among themselves, Krem muttering an aside to Dalish, Vivienne exchanging a loaded glance with Bull, Irving offering wine to Ser Lysette. Dorian accepted a cup of something from the Sister, expression bemused.

Voice lowered so as not to carry, Tony asked, "Do you think Leliana and Josephine will go for it?"

Cassandra and Cullen crossed their arms, almost in unison. Tony bit back a laugh. Cullen seemed to notice why, and uncrossed his arms, looking to Cassandra to speak first. The Seeker said, "I think they shall have to. You have my support."

Tony sighed in relief. "Okay. Okay, good. Thank you, Cassandra."

"You did not speak about the Dwarven Empire," she added. "What are your thoughts?"

"Oh, you know." She scratched her head, feeling more hair try to escape her fret. "Abundant and confusing." Cassandra huffed. "I just don't get how... I mean, okay." Tony pulled out her journal again, flipping to one of the many lists she'd made over the past few weeks. "Option one, the Carta is doing it. How? How did they organize to change the supply lines from ending at the Circles to ending at Therinfal Redoubt? How is the Order paying for the lyrium? They aren't working right now. They aren't on the Chantry's payroll. How much are they looting? Option two, the lyrium has already been paid for in advance for some amount of time. That would jive with what I understand about the contracts between the Empire and the Chantry. But those contracts should have been dissolved. They don't make any sense anymore, not with the Templars as an independent Order. So why is the lyrium still moving topside? Are the dwarven people in charge seriously not paying any attention at all to the mage-Templar conflict? Option two-point-five, that would imply that there are no rifts in the Empire, which is wild. We've seen rifts really high up in the sky, e.g., the Breach, so what's the deal there? Option three, Therinfal Redoubt is on top of a vein of lyrium that they're mining themselves. Option four, they've figured out a way to use their abilities without needing the lyrium. Option five--"

"Yes, fine," interrupted Cassandra, hands held up for peace. "You are still considering the issue."

"When the Templars get here, we'll ask them," said Tony. "In the meantime... I guess I have to worry about diplomacy." She nodded to Cullen. "I did appreciate the warning, by the way."

He gave a small, awkward shrug. "Of course."

There was more to say, but Tony didn't trust herself to say it. She was attempting to keep her promise to herself. No need to drag on the conversation with Cullen. He was a busy man. He had things to do. To that end, she turned from both of the advisors and called, "Dorian! Thoughts?"

"Pardon?" Dorian pulled back from the healer who had finally arrived. The bruise was almost entirely gone. "What about?"

Tony shrugged. "Everything. Anything. Me."

He pursed his lips as he thought. After a moment, he offered, "Thank you for the show, though it is slightly worrying to learn you can put one on so effortlessly. My suspicions have only increased."

"About where I'm from, you mean?" A show, he'd said. What was a show without the grand finale? She pulled the deck of cards from her inside breast pocket. "Catch." He did, surprised, and examined the design on the front of the box. "Ever see one of those before?"

"No," he said, focus entirely on the cards. "What is this material? Paper? I've never seen the like."

Cassandra looked at her, shocked. "What is that? Another artifact from your world?"

Cullen frowned. "And you're showing him?"

"Of course," Tony said, smiling sweetly. "Sadly, this means we can't send him away. He knows too much."

"Oh, for--really?" He laughed and shook his head, the same reaction Tony had to most of Sera's pranks. "You are... Has anyone ever told you that you can be very irritating, my Lady?"

She beamed at him. "Not in those words. They tend to sneak 'bitch' in there somewhere." Leaving him to sputter, she returned her attention to Dorian. "They're playing cards from my home. I'll teach you a game, if you like. Speaking of..." She addressed the group at large. "I'll write to the Templars, inviting them to Haven. I'll explain what I feel to be their duty versus their actions, just in case they need a push. Then, I'll formally approach the mages, doing... something... with that Magister." She sighed. "Something violent, probably. Point is, I've had a very long, very tiring day, and all of that can start tomorrow. Tonight, I'm going to get blind fucking drunk--sorry, Sister--"

"'S fine, Your Worship, truly."

"--And you're all free to join me. The diplomacy doesn't start until sunrise."

"Hear, hear," said Varric, pulling a cork out of a bottle. "Pull up a chair, Tony. Can you play Diamondback with those cards?"

Tony returned to the borrowed table, claiming a seat for herself. "Only one way to find out," she said.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Tony awoke to the log-sawing snoring of a still-drunk man. This was not, in the larger context of her life, that unusual. What was unusual was that he was atop a cot on the floor, flanked by empty bottles of wine, and, when awake, could cast magic spells.

Tony did not spare him her morning routine. She got up, lit her lamp, and assessed internal damage. She'd helped empty those bottles, as well as others. She hadn't been a true bartender in some months now, and her tolerance for drink had been downgraded from "hollow leg" to "hollow below-the-knee." There was a throbbing in her skull, but nothing a leisurely morning of drinking water and moaning wouldn't cure. She cast about for her clothes.

The trunk at the foot of her bed was empty. The clothes she'd thrown on the floor had vanished. She checked under Dorian, who made noises like a dying goat when she moved him. Everything but the shift she'd worn to sleep was gone. 

That's when she noticed the bundle by the door. They were topped with a note: For today's meetings. --L.

"Ominous," muttered Tony.

She didn't know if it was the style of the stays or the size, but they had a severe effect on her body, pushing up and separating, as if her breasts were balls of dough to be kneaded. The dress was a dusky pink confection, the warp slightly shinier than the weft, giving the whole thing a satiny finish. The long-sleeved white chemise was visible through several artistic slashes at the shoulders, making things puff out in a distinctly "princess dress-up" way; the sleeves of the overdress were separated at the elbow, making the length easily adjustable at the cost of requiring a lot of lacing up and tying bows. The material was heavier than linen, but not by much--even if Tony had wanted to be seen in this thing, she shivered as soon as she opened her front door. Her boots had been spirited away as well, and kitten-heeled slippers were left in their stead. Worst of all, there was nothing for her hair: no ribbon, no fret, no extra string from the lacing. She was blinded by the slightest gust of wind, left to push the curtain of it out of her face with a growl.

It was not to be borne. Tony stomped over to Leliana's tent, delicate shoes aerating the soil and making her gait clumsy. When she arrived, Leliana looked up, face schooled into impassivity.

"Herald," she said.

"Did we date?" Tony demanded. "Are you my ex? Because this is starting to feel personal."

Irving the runner coughed, face coloring. "Er--good morning, Your Worship. You... you look--"

"I look like a fucking sideshow attraction is what I look like. Why are my tits up my nose?"

Irving coughed once more, poorly disguising a laugh. Leliana, smiling dangerously, said, "I noticed you have a tendency to cover your clothing in mud. I hoped that, with something more respectable, you would be less inclined to do so."

"And the stays?" She raised her arms as far as they would go, which was barely straight out at the sides. "I'm one hop away from two black eyes."

"I can see that." Leliana brought a hand to her chin, considering her. "In this outfit, it would be difficult to run off without a plan, no?"

"I--"

"And your hair," she added. "You do have quite a lot of it. It must be very irritating to walk around outside. It seems you'll have to stick to the schedule we've agreed upon, wouldn't you say?"

Tony boggled at her. After a moment, the reality of her situation sank in. Frowning, she said, "Because I feel like I would remember us dating. You're very memorable."

Had Leliana been a different sort of person, she might have shrugged. As it was, she simply continued to smile.

"Your Worship," said Irving, nodding in a way that implied a bow. Before leaving, he hesitated, a flush spreading over his pale face. "You--if I may say so, you look nice. Truly."

Tony gave him a look that was all incredulity. "And that green hood really brings out your eyes, but if I said that, you'd be really uncomfortable, right?"

"Er," he said. He flushed further.

"So no," said Tony. "You can't. Goodbye, Irving."

He fairly ran out of Leliana's tent. The Spymaster was no longer smiling, instead looking at and through Tony. She said, "Do you dislike dresses in general, my Lady? Perhaps the color is a bit girlish for you."

"If I apologized about meeting without you, would that do anything?"

"Your presence is required today," she said, ignoring the question. "We have a dinner scheduled for you and Lord Kamden Arkwrighte at the end of the week, and before then, several introductions with our Orlesian neighbors. First, Josephine has scheduled an appointment for you with a hairstylist; after, you will have morning tea with Madame Vivienne. She will guide you to your lunch appointments."

The schedule was impenetrably armored. Tony could feel the cage of it around her, squeezing her and keeping her still, like very large, invisible stays. "Right," she said. "Great. Starting when?"

Leliana looked up, consulting the sun. "You are now... twenty minutes late." She picked up a writing board and studied the parchment on it, no longer sparing Tony any of her attention. "Have a pleasant day, Your Worship."

Tony sighed. Her hangover was getting worse.

She entered the Chantry and was immediately waylaid by three young people, two women and a man, all of whom were wearing masks. Tony entertained a brief hope that she was being robbed.

"Ah, Lady Antonia," said Josephine, voice all sugar and honey. "How kind of you to join us."

Tony eyed the three new people, slightly confused. It takes a team to do one person's hair, now? "I think I made pretty good time," she said, "considering I didn't know this was going on."

Josephine laughed. It was very practiced, but still managed to sound sweet. "Ah, well. We shall make due. Please allow me to introduce Amé, Amée, and Alis."

Jesus Christ. "Pleasure."

"Your Worship," they chorused, Orlesian accents bouncing around the columns.

"Now," said Josephine. "Let us see what can be done."

Ninety minutes later, Tony was hungry, thirsty, and styled within an inch of her life. Even as the braiding was happening, she wasn't certain how it was being done; loops seemed to appear out of will alone, plaits supporting other plaits in a scaffold. She tried to ask, but any attempt to start a conversation was met with the sort of impenetrable obliviousness that came from talking to artisans at work. Every lock of hair was pinned, braided, or tucked. It gave Tony the feeling of wearing a particularly snug helmet. One of them had trimmed her split ends off, at least. Silver lining.

Josephine came and went, clearly attending to multiple things at once. While Tony's hair was being studded with gold wire pins, the Ambassador said, "As you may recall, there are several rumors in circulation about you."

Tony winced as a pin brushed dangerously close to her scalp. "Who am I supposed to be today?"

Josephine nodded approvingly. "Currently, our guests know that you are minor nobility from the Free Marches. Your accent places you near Kirkwall, though you have never been--before the Conclave, Ostwick was your home."

No need to sprinkle Antivan vowels into her speech, then. "Nobility?"

"Very minor," stressed Josephine. "You were a tutor to a slightly more notable family in Ostwick. The Trevelyans have only kind things to say about you."

Tony had never met a Trevelyan in her life. "And what did I teach the Trevelyans?"

Josephine shrugged, returning her attention to her writing board. "Should it come up in conversation, I assume you will have the answer."

Well, then. More help than Tony had expected, but less than she'd hoped. "Goody."

Finally, she was pushed into a chair in Josephine's office, where, sitting across a small table, Vivienne sat with a pleasant, if somewhat blank, expression. "Good morning, Your Worship."

"Is it?" Tony resisted the urge to pull her bodice up. She'd already tried that, and it wouldn't budge.

Vivienne's smile remained perfectly even, but there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "For some, yes. Today, the Herald of Andraste holds court. Not an event to be taken lightly." She inclined her head just so. "Once again, I have been asked to play the tutor."

Ernis placed a cup of tea in front of Tony. Finally, something to drink. She looked up and gave him a brief smile. "Thank you."

Vivienne accepted her teacup without looking away from Tony. There was a moment as she simply breathed in the steam and took her first sip. It was just the standard stuff, but Vivienne treated it as though it were the finest wine in Thedas.

"Tell me, my dear," said Vivienne, "when you arrived in Haven, you had no training at all in combat, is that correct?"

Tony opened her mouth to reply, but then remembered the game she was meant to be playing. "That is what they say," she said.

Vivienne smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. "And etiquette? Were you familiar with that before you arrived here?"

"I like to think I was polite."

"I see." She placed her teacup back in its saucer and replaced it on the table. "Are you aware of the relationship between the two?"

Tony blinked. She'd never thought about comparing them, but she knew better than to admit as much. "They are both... conversations," she hedged. "They both have rules."

"The rules of engagement are nearly identical," said Vivienne. "When a target is presented, it is understood to be marked as fair play. No doubt our Commander has dissuaded you from presenting your back to the enemy."

"Of course," said Tony. "I mean--one would... yes."

Vivienne continued to smile. Her mouth did not twitch when Tony stumbled; if she found it amusing, she kept the thought to herself. Her gaze moved from Tony to the space over Tony's shoulder. Tony had to fight not to turn and see what was so interesting.

"Lady Antonia," Vivienne said, "how easily do you think I could kill your servant from where I currently sit?"

Tony's teacup clattered in its saucer. She put them both down. "Why would you?"

"Why indeed?" She tilted her head exactly five degrees to the right, still looking past her. "You are a powerful woman, but you were not always so. I can tell simply from looking at your hands--dirty nails, dry skin, cuticles a mess. You confirmed my suspicion when you acknowledged your servant. A lady of your station should never acknowledge the help, and certainly not when she is in conversation with someone else."

Tony frowned. Had she talked with Ernis? She might have said "thank you," she supposed, but she couldn't be sure. It was a gesture so normal as to be immediately forgotten.

Vivienne rested her hands gracefully in her lap. "Are you so kind with all of your servants, I wonder? Or is there something about this one that has caught your particular interest?  How quickly I could find out by freezing him where he stands."

Vivienne wasn't looking at Tony. She was staring past her, directly at Ernis. Tony swallowed.

"Please don't," said Tony.

Finally, Vivienne returned her eyes to Tony. They weren't cruel, nor were they kind. There hadn't been a single flicker of change in her expression this entire conversation. "Of course I won't, darling. Still, you really should know better than to paint a target on your own men."

Tony gave up, slumping back in her seat as much as her dress would allow. "Jesus, Vivienne." She covered her face with a hand. "Just fucking stab me, why don't you?"

Vivienne picked up her tea again. When she took a sip, this time she let her nose wrinkle. "Hmm. Would you care to start again?"

By the time Tony was being introduced to Orlesians in the Chantry main hall, she'd decided to say and do as little as possible, possibly for the rest of her life. This seemed to suit both Josephine and the Orlesians just fine; conversation moved with barely any pauses for Tony's input. Josephine was fully in her element, talking up the Inquisition's successes while gushing over the importance of everyone in attendance. It was far more fun to watch her than to try to speak. Safer, too.

"And Marquise Bellamy," continued Josephine. "What a season you have had! Rumors of your acquisitions have reached us even here."

The Marquise, wearing a half-face mask due to lunch being served, smiled with claret-red lips. "One hopes they are true. All the best rumors are, no?"

Comte Thibaut tilted his head, the satin in his hat shimmering in the candlelight. "Doubtless it would benefit the Inquisition if they were. An army marches on its stomach, yet an organization such as this one must use its pockets as its feet."

Tony could barely parse that mental image before Marquise Bellamy addressed her directly. "How do you see the Inquisition travelling, Your Worship?"

She focused on keeping her smile in place. Could the answer simply be "by horse?" No, that would be impossible. These were players of the Game. God, if only Vivienne had stabbed her. In the end, she replied, "Carefully."

The Comte laughed. Tony had no idea whether that was a good response or a bad one.

Lunch lasted three miserable hours. At the end of it, Josephine ushered the nobles to some other corner of the Chantry for further refreshments and conversation. Tony took a moment to simply sit in the empty room, staring into the middle distance.

After a few moments, Leliana appeared in the doorway. "And so?"

Tony didn't look at her, favoring the bookcase. The bookcase didn't hate her. "I haven't wanted a cigarette in seven years," she said. "Yet here I am, wondering how the napkins would taste if I rolled one up."

She huffed a laugh. "I believe I understand." Leliana stepped into the room, hand on her elbow, fingers at her chin. "It can be exhausting. Like swimming upstream. It is not a simple thing, charming those who know you wish to charm them."

"Not simple," Tony agreed. "Not simple at all."

"It stands to reason, then, that making things more difficult for us would be... inadvisable."

Tony put her elbows on the table, then buried her face in her hands. "Yeah. Yes. It'd take--just, such an idiot to do that."

"I am so glad we can agree, Your Worship."

Tony laughed, because the alternative was screaming. "Seriously, though. What was all this about?" She surfaced from her hands enough to look over her fingers. "If you're after an easier time, inviting me to join in the political side of things is the wrong way to do it."

Leliana gave her a long, considering look. "Think back on our past meetings," she said. "You're an intelligent woman. I'm certain you'll figure it out."

"Can I get my coat back, at least?"

"Oh, my Lady," said Leliana, genuine pity in her voice. "Of course you can't."

It wasn't exactly a walk of shame from the Chantry back to her cabin, but it wasn't the most comfortable journey in the world either. People she knew stared at her, amusement glinting in their eyes. People who didn't know her looked in ways that varied between deeply respectful and equally disrespectful. Still, Tony weathered the storm of being seen long enough to grab a drinking bladder from Threnn and fill it with water from the pump. She had a delivery to make.

Tony strode into the cabin and dropped the water skin on top of Dorian's still supine form. He groaned at her.

"Rise and shine, milord," she said. "I've got questions."

"Vishante kaffas."

"Right back atcha, bud." She lifted her chair and turned it to face his cot. She sat and waited as he extricated himself from the blanket he'd twisted to a rope in his sleep.

Bleary-eyed, he stared at her. "Why are you dressed like an Orlesian party favor?"

"Consequences of my actions," she said. "How well is Alexius treating the mages under his care?"

Dorian's eyes widened, then squinted against the sunlight coming through the window. "What?" He sat up, finally noticing the water skin. He looked at it with unmasked confusion. "Maker. What?"

"I've been thinking." Tony turned to the side and took her journal off the table, letting its straps fall over her lap. "The Southern Circles fell, but the ones in Tevinter are still chugging along. You say they're incredibly different, and given the evidence, I'm inclined to believe you." She loaded up her quill with ink and flipped to a blank page. "All I really know about Tevinter is that it's old, it's got slaves, and mages have power. In your opinion--drink the fucking water, Dorian, it's not poisoned--as a citizen of Tevinter, what do you think? Would the mages have an easier time up there? In the long run, I mean. With or without Alexius." She envisioned a sort of mage underground railroad to the North, protected by Inquisition soldiers and paid-off landowners.

Dorian sat up, holding the waterskin in both hands and staring at her with unmasked shock. He was shirtless, and Tony noticed that his chest had dark but very short hair--did he wax? Was chest waxing a thing, in Tevinter? He quirked a brow and said, "You know, up until now I've been skeptical about your story. The playing cards helped, but stranger things have been commissioned. This, however--the belief that Southern Circle mages, including the elves, might have an easier time in my homeland--this is..." He shook his head and unstoppered the water. "You really aren't a local, are you."