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Chapter Text

Antiva was beautiful, and wonderfully warm this time of year. Once upon a time, Briala had never even pictured herself so far from Orlais, too deeply was she mired in the machinations of the empire. Even now there were things she was leaving behind which would continue to call to her, boiling pots she could only hope would simmer agreeably in her absence. 

But she suspected this visit, this self-imposed mission, was even more important than she knew. So here she stood at the front entrance to the Montilyet Estate, which rose high with white brick walls and red roofs, festooned with vines and glass lanterns. It did not want for grandeur, though the Winter Palace back home likely dwarfed it.

A young maid in a white pinafore answered the door when Briala came calling, and she led her into a warmly colored sitting room to wait before she went to fetch the man she’d come to visit. She was dashing in excitement, the girl; "his Worship" was expecting her, she’d said.

Briala stood from her chair and conducted a quick examination of her surroundings, wondering at what point she was going to relax. It was surreal to be in a city without a mask on, to be calling at the house of a noble without one. Though, she reminded herself, a noble was not who she was seeing today.

The paintings in the sitting room depicted the current generation of Montilyets; Briala, familiar with Orlesian salons and the artwork therein that was full of hidden details, couldn’t help but study them. Most of them were surprisingly humble paintings, made with skill and an undeniable familiarity with its subjects. Two sons and three daughters. Framed in a place of pride over the mantel was the new family head, Josephine Montilyet, in a portrait which placed her by the sea.

She couldn’t help but notice the signature at the bottom of the portrait, which lay on each of its siblings. Yvette Gabriella Montilyet.

In the end, Briala didn’t get the chance to analyze the pictures when heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway beyond; she put distance between herself and the portrait, redirecting her distracted focus.

The former Inquisitor Kost Adaar, now only titled as Lady Montilyet’s lover, was a mage and a Vashoth—belonging to the race of the Qunari, but never raised in the Qun. His horns circled his ears like a ram’s, and even when he bent to get through the door they gently scraped the frame.

He had a child in the crook of his one arm, one that giggled as he dipped her in his bow. She couldn’t have been more than three years old, at most. Her skin was smooth and dark like the Montilyets’, hair glossy black with small gray nubs adorning her crown. Briala would have to be an idiot to not guess who this child’s parents were.

"Marquise Briala," said Adaar, smiling at her with teeth that looked like a bear’s. "Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. I encountered a bit of trouble." He dipped the girl more intentionally this time, eliciting another giggle, and added, "A bit of trouble means Tala here."

Briala inclined her head politely to the girl. "Not at all. A pleasure to meet you, Tala." 

"Hi," she mumbled shyly, before pressing her face in her father's chest. 

It was a shock, one that Briala had to suppress with difficulty. Though, perhaps it needn't have been. Not with Lady Montilyet’s months-long absence from her duties in Skyhold not long after Corypheus’ defeat—though they had covered for themselves well during their public appearances.

Briala wondered if it meant something that he was showing her so openly now. Perhaps it displayed the trust he had in her as an ally, or perhaps as one who did not regularly play the Game he thought nothing of it. He did seem painfully earnest at Celene's masquerade.

The child was of no consequence to her goals here, however. Clearing her throat, she returned her attention to Adaar as he sat down in an unusually large chair, one obviously custom made for him. "I appreciate your being able to see me on such short notice."

"I always have time for old friends," he said with ease, bouncing the little one on his knee. "And I know how hard it must have been to find time to get away." 

The sigh and shake of Briala's head was a genuine one. "You have no idea, the intrigue in the Imperial Court never sleeps."

"How is the Empress, these days?" Said with no particular tone, but with his head cocked in a strangely curious manner. Transparently probing.

"Celene is… most agreeable," she returned in the same inflection, showing nothing on her face. Not because he of all people would take advantage of what lay underneath, but because it was Briala’s opinion that nobody should see it. Ever. "It is not her that I came here to discuss. The Inquisition gave me its aid, once, and I find myself in need of aid again."

Adaar paused, going still. Tala had acclimated to the presence of a stranger and was now trying to climb the chair, and he spoke carefully as he tried to hold her in place. "...Not that I hate helping, but I'm not really the Inquisitor anymore."

Briala smiled patiently at him. She knew the Inquisition was disbanded, of course; she was there at the Exalted Council. But even so, she had suspected from the start that this was an in-name-only decision, something to let its core members operate beneath the public eye, even if at a significant cost of resources. Understandable; a Vashoth mage, of all things, would hardly like to be collared by her Celene. 

Under her watchful eyes Adaar coughed uncomfortably. "... I'll hear you out."

"Thank you. If you will allow me, I would like to start at the beginning." 

Adaar nodded, gestured with his chin for her to sit on the chair behind her. "I can have something brought up. Tea, or whatever else you… want?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

The man grunted. "Maybe I'll have something, then."

He made the request for refreshments, and ignoring the buzzing in her stomach, Briala sat down to begin, taking a deep breath. "This all started a year following your triumph against Corypheus. At that time, I had only just begun to settle in for my duties as Marquise, a position for which I have you to thank.

"I needed more allies, people I knew I could trust. To that end, there was a… personal matter I wished to attend to."

***

Briala hadn't expected for her agents to actually find any leads. In the decades she had known Felassan, she knew him as a man who could only be found when he wanted to be. Using her increased resources to search the countryside for him was as much an invitation for him to return as anything; at some point word would reach him that she desired to see him again, and he would come meet her… or, equally as likely, not.

For that reason, it was a bit distressing when she received a report back from one of her agents that he had, in fact, been found on the border between Ferelden and Orlais. Living in a Dalish clan, one which sent said agent back with a black eye and a gift of herbs.

"I didn't see him myself," her agent reported in the drawing room of the Imperial Palace, "They didn't want to turn him over. But they said they knew the name, and he is there if you want to meet him."

"Do you think they will allow me to meet him, considering the sort of reception you were given?" Briala had asked, an eyebrow raised in skepticism that shielded her cold insides.

Her man chuckled, tenderly touching the yellowed skin around his eye. "Well, they've heard of you, my Lady."

As was expected of this time of year, the provinces of Orlais were bitterly cold; though it would hopefully not be as bad as the winter of last year, the winds spoke of many snowfalls to come in the months ahead. Though she had begun the journey in the less practical Orlesian court dress, as the trip went underway Briala had quickly changed into something more suitable to the weather, warm wool under the leathers and lightweight silverite armor she’d recently had crafted for herself.

It seemed to make the elves of Clan Brunwyn ill at ease, with many often gazing at the sky as if to make sure that the snow wasn’t falling yet. Their camp was filled with supplies, acquired likely by trading or raiding surrounding settlements, most of it food and clothing. They were adequately stocked, but she overheard some of them whisper to each other their fears of not having enough.

Though their worries over the season were not greater than their interest in her, a "flat-eared" outsider in their encampment.

Their initial introduction had been rough, as was often the case with the Dalish. More specifically, it began with Briala finding herself looking down the length of several arrows drawn back and pointed at her heart. They took her and her entourage by surprise, appearing as if out of nowhere from the trees; at their wordless arrival, the human guards that accompanied her gave a start, their hands nervously clasping the hilts of their swords. 

But she had long learned to handle having weapons pointed at her. At the time Briala only smiled at their welcoming party, slipping her mask off her face. "Well, hello to you too."

The levity was not appreciated. 

Once the archers learned her identity she was allowed to pass almost immediately. But her human guards, sent along by Celene to protect her precious Marquise during this personal errand, were forced to turn back with their larger weapons stripped from them as a safety measure. They were good men, which was a rarity, but they talked to their Empress far too much. Briala was not particularly sorry to see them go.

"You have the most peculiar timing," said Meloria, a lithe young woman in dark bear hide leathers as she led Briala through the camp. She was all that was left of their welcoming party, with the rest of the archers off to continue hunting for more provisions. "We’re fixing to head north soon. The Keeper said you might come by, but none of us were counting on it."

"Then I would say my timing is perfect; I wouldn't have been happy having to follow yet more breadcrumbs to your clan," Briala said curtly, her hands clasped behind her back. 

She did not make a show of examining the camp while they passed through it, such as by turning her head about, but there was still a lot that she could see out of the corners of her eyes. It was much like Clan Virnehn, at least in their appearances. Of course, their idols of the elven gods were already packed away, but she could even tell where by which aravel they occasionally stopped and nodded their heads at. 

The elves of Brunwyn were dressed more warmly for the season, too. Their varied clothes looked like they might have been acquired by trading, with Briala recognizing many patterns more common in human villages; perhaps meaning this clan was more receptive to outsiders. She would certainly hope so.

Not counting the archers that she encountered earlier, there were about thirty elves that she could see working—packing, weaving, making repairs to aravels—with youths running among them to provide assistance with smaller hands. They all paused to glance her way when she passed by, though whether it was suspicion or simple curiosity that led them to stare she didn’t know. Some whispered, voices too low for her to make out, and some phrases in elven besides. 

None of them were Felassan.

"You have to understand, we’re not keen on being here when the winds get colder. Last winter was not kind to us," said her guide in the meantime, beckoning her along when it seemed she was moving too slowly. She turned to flash a cool gaze at Briala as she added, "... And begging your pardon, Marquise, we’re not keen on outsiders knowing where we are, even if it is another elf."

They were fast approaching one of the clan’s brightly-colored landships, this one still converted into a shelter. Briala folded her arms in front of her chest as the two of them slowed to a stop. "You make that very clear, yes. …I understand the desire. I don’t intend to keep you long."

"We’ll appreciate that," Meloria said with a bow of her head. With that she turned on her heel, facing the shelter and knocking to announce Briala’s presence.

All the while, Briala felt those stares at her back from the others. It was nothing to the malevolent glares that she felt on her as a titled elf in Celene’s court, but they made her uneasy nonetheless, if only because she couldn’t tell what they meant. Over the past year, she had interacted with only a few Dalish clans, and only through third parties. None matched the hostility of the first clan she’d ever met but they were still slow to trust, as expected in the middle of the Orlesian Empire; she imagined Brunwyn was no exception.

Moreover, she had thought coming in that this was perhaps Felassan’s own clan, but was quickly discarding that notion the more she saw of them. So that begged the question of why he was living with them now.

Before Briala knew it, however, a woman emerged from the shelter at Meloria’s summons, and so she found herself facing what could only be Clan Brunwyn’s Keeper. It was an older woman, an elf dressed in nature-patterned Dalish robes with her staff already in hand, her long white hair styled into braids.

As she stepped into the clouded sunlight at a crouch, the woman’s eyes flickered over their visitor’s face, softening quickly. "Andaran atish’an, da’len," she said as she straightened to greet her, rolling her shoulders. "I am Mithriel, the Keeper of this clan. Our scouts alerted us that you might come by; here I thought I would have time to rest first."

"Call me Briala, hahren," she replied with a nod. And then, though it was with little surprise, she asked, "You were having me watched?"

Mithriel offered a small smile. "Your men were not terribly inconspicuous."

Yes, subtlety was not what they were chosen for, unfortunately; Briala cleared her throat, giving another careful look at her surroundings before pushing past the topic of her bodyguards. "I’ll get to the point. You met an agent of mine. He informed me that you know the whereabouts of someone important to me. A mage, Felassan. One of you."

Well, as far as she was aware, he was one of them. There was no need to get into the gory details when she was already uncertain of her standing in this encampment. 

During this introduction Briala had not forgotten about her escort, but nonetheless Meloria had faded into the background somewhat. She interjected now, her brows drawing down when she glanced towards her Keeper. "Your friend is a–? Then you do not know?"

"I can know nothing that you do not tell me," said Briala, with a frown to match her spike of apprehension.

Keeper Mithriel shook her head; she reaffirmed a tighter hold on her staff as she planted it into the dirt, facing Briala head-on. "Your agent was correct to say that we know of a Felassan—at least, we know of one who was once called Felassan." The wording was strange; Briala opened her mouth to speak, but was not given the chance. "But our Felassan is no mage."

"Not a mage…?" Briala stared at her in confusion for a moment, before finally sputtering out. "Then, can you take me to your Felassan?"

Meloria and Mithriel shared looks this time, and the Keeper dismissed her wordlessly with a wave of her hand. To Briala she beckoned, her expression muted. "Come. I will take you to Master Elias. You will find him there."

Wherever they were going, it wasn’t far; the Keeper weaved around aravels and crates of supplies, using her staff as a walking stick to pick over the soft earth. Although they did not stop in their tasks the other Dalish in the encampment continued to watch them, some slowing. Though it was more on caution than seeing a true need, Briala drew her hands across the fabric that concealed the daggers sewn in her clothes, reminding herself of their presence.

It was on the edge of the camp, beside another converted shelter where a crafting table had been erected, and a tent flap stretched over wooden posts to keep the materials dry from rain. Under the shade of the open tent was a balding elf hard at work mixing pastes and elixirs, a man who paused and glanced up at the approaching company. He had another youth at his side, an elven girl who was not yet old enough for vallaslin that had been watching him mix; a third man stood just behind them both, back to them as he deftly stripped leaves from stalks of elfroot.

There was such a sense of wrongness when they approached that for just a moment she couldn’t breathe, another cold strike inside blocking her lungs. Though where the feeling was coming from she couldn’t yet say.

"Greetings, Keeper," said the elf in the forefront, putting down his tools while his young companion—an apprentice, perhaps—stared at Briala with large eyes. "And… Keeper’s guest. Do you need something from me?"

Mithriel gestured behind him. "Not you, lethallin, but our guest wishes to meet with your assistant there."

Before any of them could speak further, with that one introduction Briala pressed abruptly to the border of the worktable, her eyes burning. "Felassan?" she called out, ignoring the others. "Hahren?"

The assistant paused in his work at the sound of her voice, his head tilting slightly in her direction. He spoke, and his voice was soft and steady. A monotone. "I once went by the name Felassan," it said. "It no longer applies to me. However, you may call me that if you wish."

Having said that, the elf turned fully in their direction, his violet eyes meeting hers. It froze the blood in Briala’s veins.

No lyrium brand marked his forehead, such as it did the rune-crafters that she’d once or twice seen selling their wares outside the old Circles of Magi. He was unmarred by anything save for his own tattoos; in fact, he looked exactly the same as he had the day they parted, save for his styled hair having grown long. But the gaze that Felassan directed her way was lifeless, empty of even the spark of recognition. The mischievous glint, one which belied dark secrets she’d never become privy to, was gone.  

To say he was no longer a mage had been correct. Felassan was Tranquil.

Briala found herself turning to Mithriel with a snarl, halfway to drawing her hidden blades. "What have you done to him?"

"So you did not know," the Keeper sighed; even though her fellows, the potion master and the youth, stiffened with alarm, she just regarded Briala sadly. "You have my deepest sympathy, da’len."

The potion master (Master Elias, was that his name?) spoke up louder when Briala did not relax. "We’ve done nothing but do our duty to one of ours. We found him wandering the wilderness, his clan lost and his mind already cut off from the Beyond." Briala glared at him instead, and he muttered, "...I think the war was still going then, he could have been attacked by the old Templar Order…"

"He wasn’t Tranquil when I saw him last," Briala said through gritted teeth. "And he would never let himself fall to templars."

Elias shrugged, matching the glare with a peevish look of his own. "We don’t know any more than you do, da’len. He never told us what happened, how he got this way. You would have us interrogate him?"

With her lip curling in frustration, Briala turned back to Felassan. "Hahren, look at me. Do you recognize me?"

Once more Felassan turned his eyes towards hers, with the same emptiness as she’d glimpsed before. He gave a bare nod. "Yes. Your name is Briala. You come from the city of Val Royeaux." A pause as he went on, speaking as if reciting information he’d memorized by rote. "You were formerly a member of Empress Celene’s palace staff. I am told that after the civil war you joined the royal court."

"I was your pupil," she insisted, her voice lowering to a hiss as she tried to restrain the frantic beat of her heart. "We were allies! You helped me… so much, I…"

She closed her mouth, fearful of her voice beginning to tremble, even if she was not among company that would tear her to pieces for it. The Tranquil image of Felassan cocked his head at her, blinking slowly, and spoke again at length, "Ir abelas. Though I remember that we were close, I no longer remember why."

"What’s happened to you? Who did this to you?"

"I cannot say."

The refusal was passive, final without being harsh, his whole demeanor one that could be mistaken as patient. Still her jaw clenched, and Briala slammed her fist on the worktable. "Why not? Do the Tranquil keep secrets?"

"Yes. It is possible for Tranquil such as myself to refrain from sharing information." It was unlike any conversation they’d ever had before, upfront and direct but giving nothing. And as Briala looked upon him, feeling wretched inside, he only offered a blank stare in return. A puppet with no strings left to tug upon him.

While she struggled with herself, Elias pushed a little more into her line of vision, as if afraid she might start attacking her old mentor. His apprentice pressed to the other end of the worktable from them, almost cowering, but he paid the child no mind. "You think we haven’t asked him about his past before? He says it’s too dangerous to tell."

"He didn’t so much as tell us his name until now," Mithriel added. While she spoke Briala closed her eyes, some of the burning tension smothered in her lungs. "We’d taken to calling him Falon. A friend."

But that didn’t sound right. Briala turned back to her sharply. "He never told you his name? Then when I sent agents asking after a Felassan, how did you know this was the man I spoke of?"

The Keeper’s large, dark eyes crinkled sadly at the edges. "Your Felassan was… not the first elvhen that we adopted into our clan that year."

She gestured towards the young elf with them, who still watched Briala with silent apprehension, and the potion master came over to stand with her. "Another clan to the west perished in the outbreak of the civil war," Elias explained. "The children survived, like this lass here, and they made their way to us. Your Felassan occasionally made dealings with their Keeper, it seems, and they remembered him from back then."

A clan to the west of here… Briala’s mouth ran dry.

"The loss of their clan is a very painful memory for them, Briala," Mithriel supplied in the wake of her silence, of the young elf’s continued silence. "They did not inform us of Falon’s old name until they heard someone was looking for him."

A painful memory. One would assume so, looking down on the young elf who only blinked back with a haunted expression. Remembering the curve of Imshael's cruel smile as he made his way to their people's camp. Briala didn’t even recognize her. She hadn’t been there long enough to learn their faces, the other elves of Clan Virnehn. If she would have bothered to begin with.

"I see," Briala said at last, her voice scraping on her throat.

"I would prefer to continue my work," Felassan announced after a few more seconds had passed, giving her a start at how sudden his speech was. He looked right at her, through her, before going right back to stripping elfroot. "Dareth shiral, Briala."

Just like that, their conversation was over, Felassan working again as though he had just said hello to a passing acquaintance or an estranged neighbor. She turned back to Mithriel and took a deep, steadying breath. "–I didn’t expect this."

"I understand, da’len," she said back. "And I’m sorry. We did not know."

That deep breath became another, and yet another after that; Briala paced away, almost wishing she still had her mask while she shoved back down a torrent in her heart, covering her face with her hands as it screwed up.

Tranquility was never something relevant to her, an elf in the heart of Val Royeaux without magic. Being allies with a mage, and having a heritage of ancient elven mages besides, it only made sense to disagree with the Chantry's views on principle—but the practices of the Templar Order had seemed so distant when she always had her own battles to fight. She only met a few of those called Tranquil, and on those rare occasions she would have been happy to not even know they existed. Husks without even enough of themselves left to suffer.

But Briala imagined that if those Tranquil had loved ones of their own, they would feel much more strongly, like she did right now. And the thought that some band of nobody templars could have captured her mentor, subjected him to this—

Thinking about the mage war, something occurred to her, though; she lifted her head, despair making way to the part of her that knew how to move through pain. "Wait." She stalked back to the Keeper. "It doesn’t need to be like this. I don’t expect you to have heard, but there’s a cure for Tranquility now." Mithriel's eyebrows raised, and she kept going. " He can be cured. I understand that there are risks to the procedure, but the new Divine is establishing a sanctuary in Ferelden. If you take him there, you may be able to restore him."

"That would not be advisable," Felassan spoke up once again, though he did not stop his work. "If I am cured of my Tranquility, I may pose a risk due to my abilities. And," he paused; just a stutter through his activity, though he continued shortly after, "Becoming whole again will prove uncomfortable for me."

It galled her. "You, of all people, being afraid of pain?"

He did not match her frustration. "I would prefer not to suffer needlessly. But the risk of my connecting to the dreaming world again is the primary concern."

"That makes no sense," she snapped back. "You never acted as though your powers made you a risk before. You have more self control than anyone I know, mage or not; even being Tranquil can't have erased all of it!"

As her voice raised Elias and his apprentice began to shift uncomfortably; Felassan just collected a new bundle of herbs from the workbench, affording her a bare glance from his dull eyes. "Regardless of your perception of the risk I posed, were I to be cured—"

Growing frustrated, she leaned over the workbench. "Bullshit, don’t talk about yourself like you were some kind of time bomb!"

"Briala." Mithriel's tone hardened, and Briala quickly took a step back from the bench; she had almost forgotten that she was just the Keeper's guest here. "That's enough."

In the wake of her outburst Felassan had fallen silent, perhaps simply fulfilling her "request". Only then remembering herself, she bitterly bowed her head. "Ir abelas, Keeper Mithriel. I let myself get carried away. It won’t happen again."

"I realize this has been a terrible shock for you, da'len. I do. But we will not go against the wishes of one who has already had the templar’s brutal will forced on him. Not to interrogate him, nor to force a cure on him that itself has risks."

He would say it was worth the risks. He would, if he were here, and not this—

Hahren…

It took just a moment to settle herself. When Briala raised her head back up, she showed nothing on her face. Less than nothing—her brow was drawn, her eyes contrite as she sighed gently to Mithriel's rebuke. "Of course. It was foolish of me to act otherwise."

She took her resignation as acceptance, placing a gentle hand on Briala's shoulder. "If you like… we can allow you to stay here in our camp for a few days before we move on, da'len. You can visit with your friend during that time."

He isn't "my friend" right now, Briala thought, but wasn't foolish enough to give voice to what was going on in her head. They thought she came to them with her mask removed. The truth was, she always kept it with her.

She touched her hand to the Keeper's and smiled, a sad smile suited to cover up the resentment. "Thank you, Keeper. Even if this isn't what I wanted, I'm grateful to your clan for taking care of him."

Briala… really wanted to mean that.

In reality there was simply no point in forcing the issue. Even if her every sense screamed at her that the Felassan she remembered could not possibly want this—well, he was beyond wanting anything. And kidnapping and dragging him all the way to a sanctuary still under construction was an undertaking she wasn’t really equipped to complete.

So it was with a heavy heart that Briala decided to leave it be, let herself accustom to one more loss of the many she’d suffered over the years. She’d let Felassan linger in this half-life, without even a clue how or why it happened.

Until a year later, shortly before Divine Victoria called for the Exalted Council.

***

"I'm sorry to hear about your friend," Adaar said with a slow exhale of breath, leaning forward in his seat. "But, uh, what does that have to do with me?"

By now the little one had gone, taken away by a jittery, apologetic nanny, while the maid to answer the door had delivered a tray of tea and petit fours. Adaar was content to eat most of them; as the day drew on and her story continued, Briala had taken to standing. It was the only time when her head was higher than the Vashoth in front of her (if only because he was slouching.) 

"It’s been about five years since my mentor was cut off from the Fade," she said, voice low. "But on no account do I think he is beyond saving. You have the means to cure Tranquility, or at least you know how it is done. You are the one who reintroduced it to the Divine, after all. What I ask is that you help me restore him to his old self."

Adaar finished the last of the little cakes with relish. "You want me to cure him?"

She gave a curt nod. "I am prepared to make it worth your while, of course. I am not without resources, thanks to you."

"You know, the Tranquil Sanctuary is up and running now. You could just take your friend there if you have the chance."

"But I don’t," she sighed. "I have three reasons to want your help in particular, Inquisitor—excuse me, Adaar. Second of which is that I have already made inquiries to the sanctuary, and there is a… considerable wait time. I’m told most former Tranquil require much rehabilitation before they can be discharged."

Adaar laughed, just a grunt of a noise. "Well. Yeah."

"The third reason is convenience." Briala inclined her head with a small smile. "You see, I have kept in intermittent contact with Clan Brunwyn since our first meeting. Did you know that there is presently a Dalish clan camping just outside of Antiva? Their ‘Falon’ is still among them."

Adaar’s eyebrows shot up. "...Brunwyn is at the border? That’s quite a journey for one clan to make."

With an affected blank face, Briala merely gave a half-shrug. "They have their troubles, Adaar. Just as I have mine."

That was the clincher, actually, the opportunity which was handed to her on a silver platter. She could see Adaar’s heartstrings as openly as if someone had cut them out of his chest, and she knew the former Inquisitor’s reputation enough by now to know that a group of people in "trouble" tugged on them as well as anything. Adaar’s jaw moved back and forth, his brilliantly Fade-touched eyes flickering away as he turned over her request.

But suddenly his gaze shot back over to her curiously. "You said there were three reasons, but you skipped right over the first one."

Ah. "So you caught that? That’s because I’m keeping it private for now," Briala admitted. As Adaar narrowed his eyes at her, she added, "I’m sorry, but it cannot be otherwise. You will know in good time, so long as you respect my privacy, Adaar. Trust me when I say that you, specifically, will find this task worthwhile."

It was a bit of a gamble, admitting to hiding something from him, but she absolutely was not prepared to share the rest. From experience, Briala knew it could always turn out worse if she kept it from him completely and he found out on his own. She just had to rely on his good intentions to win out against his caution.

But Adaar just sighed, running his fingers through the strip of hair he maintained between his horns. It was growing longer, black beginning to gray, perhaps a sign of the toll that being charged with the world’s safekeeping had taken on him even in this short time. Briala could empathize, even as she angled for his aid now.

It took him less than a minute to decide, though she could tell that he was uneasy about it.

"... Take me to your friend. I know a guy who can help," Adaar admitted at long last, sitting back in his chair. Briala felt a surge of relief before she had time to school it, and evidently he noticed—going by the wry smirk twisting his previously downturned lips. "... Guy… spirit… he can help. It’s his favorite thing to do."

Chapter Text

Several figures gathered in a forest clearing, an isolated space in the middle of a gentle grove of trees by the coast. Three elves, a young Antivan maid, and the former Inquisitor. 

Twilight was drawing near, animals calling to each other in the dusty, dim light. Magic sparked across the air, a windless tension waiting to burst like a bubble. While the first four figures watched, the former Inquisitor was currently engaged with drawing a ritual circle in the dirt.

On good terms with Briala or not, the elves of Clan Brunwyn had not been happy to see a Qunari approaching their camp at first. 

But a one-armed Qunari? They had heard of one of those.

"Stand down. That’s Inquisitor Adaar." The elf taking charge of the scouts was one that Briala remembered from her own encounter with them long ago, but she couldn’t remember the name well enough now. She went to greet the Inquisitor with a hopeful caution, likely having heard stories of the aid he gave to Dalish clans in the past, and for once Briala had the sense that everything was going smoothly.

It wasn’t long before they’d been reintroduced to the Keeper, who was, in turn… reacquainted with her request. It hadn't left her particularly pleased—though judging by the new lines of stress on the woman's face since they met last, that was probably not a hard feat.

"My answer has not changed, Briala."

Briala kept her voice neutral. "Just let me meet with Falon." The name tasted bitter on her tongue. "That is all I ask."

Before the Keeper could raise further objection, Adaar interrupted with his kind smile and his bleeding heart; a handful of elven children were already in the middle of examining his quarterstaff. "You're Keeper Mithriel? Briala tells me that your clan has been having some trouble that brought you to the border. Would you like to tell me about it?"

When "Falon" emerged from the encampment, he looked much the same as he always had; Briala took small comfort in the resultant knowledge that he had gone unharmed in his current state. He wasn't surprised to see her, nor was he happy or angry or irritated. He just… acknowledged that she was there, briefly, giving a small nod of his head and a perfunctory, "You have returned, Briala. The last time you visited this clan, you had a particular request. If you have the same request, I will decline again."

She was prepared this time. All it took was four little words. Whispered in his ear, quiet so that none of the Dalish or the Inquisitor could overhear it. After a few moments, Felassan strode over to Keeper Mithriel and calmly told her that he would be acquiescing to his former pupil’s wishes, and requested to accompany them. 

Briala promised it wouldn't be long—they didn't need to leave the country for this attempt, after all—and added that once they were done, the former Inquisitor Adaar would be entirely at their disposal. Unfortunately, that reassurance only encouraged Keeper Mithriel to let them go inasmuch as she also sent her Second to observe the proceedings. An overly cautious bunch. But as inconvenient as it was, Briala couldn't say she wouldn't have been the same way.

They’d walked a few miles until finding the clearing, and now they lingered at the edge watching Inquisitor Adaar—Briala, Felassan, Second Ethwin, and Adaar's retainer from the Montilyet estate, Livia. At least the young Second seemed excited; she sat down in the grass to observe the preparations, her staff laid across her knobby knees. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen or seventeen years old, no vallaslin on her face as of yet.

Adaar had been working on the circle for a half-hour by then; he probably could have gone faster in marking down the sigils and runes, that is if he had more than one hand to work with. He seemed to be almost finished now, though, a wide circle covered in markings just about taking shape in the dirt. Each time he finished a rune, it would glow with the light of his magic, soft and pale blue, and now the whole clearing was almost lit up this way. 

It stirred the part of her that was taught to fear magic, always at war with the part of her that knew better. It would help if she wasn’t so starkly aware of her own ignorance. What would happen when the circle was complete? Where was this "friend" who would be helping Felassan to heal? She longed to ask Adaar outright, but loathed the thought of showing fear, especially when the young one to her left still seemed so at ease with proceedings. 

Instead, she prodded the big man in a different way, her hands clasped tightly together. "Do you require… assistance with this task, Inquisitor?"

Adaar paused his work to look back over at her, flashing them all a grin. "Nah. I’m almost finished." Though as he then paused to reconsider his work, the smile became more subdued. "This might seem a little strange to you, Marquise. Just trust me, I know what I'm doing."

With a faint shock of feeling seen through, Briala only affected a laugh at that. "I've seen many strange things over the years. A Qunari saving the world under the mantle of Andraste's Herald, as an example." 

He coughed sheepishly, shaking his head, and returned to the slow drags of constructing his ritual circle. It took only a minute more before the last rune was complete. 

When Adaar was about finished putting on the finishing touches (and, tellingly, dismissing Livia from the clearing to wait for his return,) Felassan turned to Briala again. He showed no fear, no anger or anxiety, his gaze only moving through her like she was a painting. "You would do well to reconsider your current course, Briala," he said.

"No," was all she replied back.

That was as much as they could say to each other before the circle became resplendent with light, the runes glowing in concert with each other now. Adaar raised his staff and chanted a litany in what Briala barely recognized to be Tevene, his eyes glowing bright from within as if magic had lit a flame in his skull.

The air became fraught with the buzz of energy as the Veil thrummed and twisted, and—with a terrible thrill—parted.  

A new figure entered the clearing, falling unsteadily onto their feet in the center of the ritual circle. A young human man, at first glance, dressed in ratty provincial leathers and a wide-brimmed hat. On second glance, it was something more, or maybe even less; the outline of the boy’s body seemed to shimmer and distort, an aura of the unnatural and Fade-touched in his very presence. Looking closely enough, one could see that he was see-through, cast no shadow, left no mark on the land he stood on. 

It was a demon.

Ethwin stood up from the grass with a cry, her eyes shining—frustratingly, it seemed she was more excited than alarmed at the show of magic on display, the novelty of the summoning. The only one who didn't react in the slightest was Felassan, for obvious reasons, though his eyes did draw pointedly to the creature in the circle. 

For Briala, it was as if the wind had been knocked out of her lungs. She stood stock still, not saying a word at first lest she betray herself with a tremble in her voice. It was silly, embarrassing as a member of Celene's court, to give in to a single moment of fear, and yet… perhaps she would never be fully used to all things magic and the Fade.

With his summoning complete, Adaar's eyes lost their glow, and the light of the ritual runes likewise began to lower in intensity until they were mere traces on the ground. The Qunari stepped back and rolled his shoulders, reaching to put his staff in its sheath against his broad back.

Then he faced the demon in the circle and said, "Heya, Cole."

"Oh, that's really curious," Briala heard Ethwin mutter beneath her breath; she was rolling her own staff between her hands, leaning from foot to foot as she observed proceedings in excitement.

The demon approached Adaar at the edge of the circle, his wide hat brim shadowing his eyes. "Soft shadows in the dark, they burst and blight on the other side while faces scream, tired feet run, reaching for succor—hello Adaar."

"Oh, uh, did I pick a bad spot?" asked Adaar, scratching the back of his neck while he casually chatted with the creature in the ritual circle, this "Cole".

And said creature folded his arms across his chest, moving pensively from foot to foot. "This spot is good. The hurt is… it’s not here, it’s… hard to explain here."

"You didn’t say that this friend of yours was from the Fade, Inquisitor," Briala interrupted them, finally able to find a version of her voice that did not shake. Though her heart skipped a beat when it led to Cole swiveling his head in her direction. 

Adaar winced. "I didn’t mention? …Listen, Cole’s a good guy, we go way back. Besides, you need a spirit to cure a Tranquil, remember?"

And obviously, Briala knew that. But… she’d imagined them meeting with another mage, a spirit medium who wrangled the things for a living like the ones that worked the sanctuary in Ferelden. Not a spirit summoned to their world on its own, free to do whatever it liked. She looked at the creature in front of her, and found herself looking into his eyes when he lifted his head. They were milky, blue, and carried some sort of spark in their depths that reminded her of Imshael.

He spoke in a voice that was as steady and calm as Felassan’s, almost so that she would call it emotionless. But while her former mentor’s speech was born of emptiness, where inflection was used if only to communicate, Cole spoke like someone… unpracticed to communicating in vocal words at all. "It’s okay," he said to her, and it did sound like an attempt to be gentle. "I’m only here to help. I won’t hurt anyone." He placed a hand to his chest. "I am Compassion. You… can call me Cole, too, if you like. It helps Adaar." 

"... Well met, Cole," Briala said slowly, carefully.

Cole just cocked his head at her. "We met before. You don’t remember it," he admitted, something which brought an involuntary shudder to her throat. "An old wound now, but it still arcs, aches… your face was different, then. I was different, too. I don’t know if I could have made it better. Maybe I could, now—like this…"

"Thank you for your concern, but I’m not the patient here, spirit," she said crisply.

Adaar made a nudging motion in the air as well. "Yeah, it’s her mentor that we’re here for, remember? He’s Tranquil. You can help him, can’t you? It can be any spirit."

At last, Cole’s eyes turned on Felassan as if seeing him for the first time, something mournful in their gaze. Felassan, who stood in the same spot as before, perfectly untroubled and perfectly disinterested. "He isn’t the same. Broken not burned, roots torn and tossed. Not severed, but self still stripped—dead—a doll."

Briala swallowed.

"...But I think I can help." 

The spirit eyed the circle of runes it was currently standing in, feet currently planted by the edge. Without a word of warning, without needing to be bid, Adaar dragged his staff through one of the runes he’d inscribed in the dirt, scuffing it with all the ceremony of opening a door.

The magic of the circle went dead, and to Briala’s alarm, Cole did not vanish—but instead took in his surroundings, himself, as if he was really there for the first time. While by now she had decided to react as little as possible to avoid showing her ignorance, Ethwin moved like she’d been touched with a hot poker, her grip on her staff growing tight as all fascination turned to fear. "What are you doing!? " 

As if ignoring her panic completely, Cole ambled over the edge of the circle, over the broken rune, and his footsteps left only the barest impact on the grass. Adaar rushed to get between him and the Dalish Second, speaking urgently, "He’s completely safe, he’s an old friend."

"He’s a spirit! You can’t just break the circle!" 

Briala inched closer to Felassan, for that was where Cole was headed while Adaar and Ethwin argued. It was going to happen, then. …Her heart was in her throat. She wanted to hold his hand, though she suspected he would not get any comfort from it, nor would he have any fear to be comforted over. 

But as if reading her thoughts, Cole looked at her too and said, "You can hold his hand, if it helps you. He won’t care."

Her face burned; of course a spirit of compassion had read her own desire to be comforted. "Is this going to hurt him?" she found herself saying; a question that she’d already discarded hundreds of times, knowing better. But it kept coming back to mind anyway.

Cole’s eyes were even emptier than Felassan’s, it felt like. "Yes. He will hurt." They turned back to his prospective patient. "But he needs to be back to himself. He needs to be real. I will heal the hurt when it comes. I can’t heal ‘nothing’."

"Then heal him," she replied with a set jaw and gaze. "Bring him back."

"Falon, you don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to!" Ethwin suddenly called from behind them, still a ball of nervous energy that Adaar was trying to soothe. "I can call on Mithriel and we can go home, if you want!"

Felassan acknowledged her only with a blink; perhaps this wasn’t what he "wanted", but he was finished with his protestations. In the meantime, the spirit had his work to complete.

"It has to be from inside him," he explained, almost like he was thinking aloud to himself as much as talking to Briala. "The darkest parts of him, outside the lingering light, the curtain to where nothing ends, and nothing begins. It has to be there."

With that much being said, he reached out his hand and brought it gently to her old mentor’s forehead. His already translucent body shimmered with a magical aura, and then with a crackle and the sound of singing music in her mind, Briala realized that the spirit had disappeared. Disappeared, it seemed, directly into Felassan.

Whose dulled, violet eyes widened.

To Compassion, it seems as if it had never left the clearing. All the transition meant was that this one was "clearer" to it, not as rigidly fixed. More beautiful, and more terrifying. The Fade was a fluid place where one’s true self could come out, shift, and amorphously change; the visual languages that spirits best understood. It was no wonder that the realm beyond was once so uncanny to it, when Compassion was once so deeply disconnected from what it really was.

Now, it feels like home again, even here in the mind of someone else.

The forest around them is composed of trees that grow to impossibly tall heights, the wishes of beings that yearn to be even more than they already are. Some trees still stand scorched and hacked at, scars that in the world of mortals had long overgrown the violent acts done to it, but which the thick trunks remember. Adaar stands nearby, his missing arm lingering in a sense memory and his heart alight with the magic he wields so effortlessly, softly burning like a beacon. The elves are here too—the mage elf, and Briala—and so is the Maid, though in the waking world she’d already left. They are more than their shelled selves here, more active and easier to speak with, but it’s not them that Compassion must deal with now.

It is the not-real-elf. The snapped Slow Arrow, who does not lie in this clearing. His true self lies in the depths of the Fade, felled in a place that stands many miles away in the waking world; Compassion crosses the gap within moments, trades the clearing in Antiva out for the old pains and fresh wounds of the Dales.

The soul lies by a burned-out campfire, crumpled and broken and motionless. It’s not merely disconnected from the body to which it belongs, but dead. 

Compassion kneels down to inspect further, cradling the head in its warm hands. 

It’s not the same as those it has helped heal in the Ferelden sanctuary. The mutilated mages of the Circles were cut off from the Fade; with a blast of lyrium, their injury originated in the waking world and punched in. They had souls still waiting, atrophying, on the other side. But Felassan’s self was cut down at the source, a practiced and decisive hand rending away what made him himself. Leaving only the empty, transparent shell behind. It’s an atypical case study.

It would have been sickening for Cole to behold, but Compassion lives to heal the hurt. It sees the challenge inherent and becomes abuzz with further energy, stretching out and then embracing the Slow Arrow’s incorporeal form. 

Nothing is ever truly lost in the Fade. Even spirits, destroyed and scattered, one day reform again, different but not "gone". The Slow Arrow is dead inside, but there remains something left to work with, to bring warmth back into. Like rubbing hands to encourage the return of blood, but the blood grows instead of flows. Well, it flows too—

When Compassion touches the memories in his silent mind, it marvels at the depth to which it goes. It sees Briala on the surface, young and naive while wisened and hardened and above all, startlingly real. It sees the struggling, the desperate, the ignorant, the passionate that pass by the Slow Arrow’s locked-off heart, humans and elves and mages and nobles all, who cannot see beyond themselves. And as Compassion delves deeper, it sees eras of slumber. Beyond which lie ancient spires and old battles, horrifying shapes and sounds of war, broken chains and an endless people who died and lived by their dreams. There is love, sorrow, joy, and pain—pain so long overgrown that it is a proud system of roots, unfolding into everything Compassion now hungrily touches.

The Slow Arrow is ancient, older than any other soul Compassion has touched, save for one.

In the waking world Briala’s heart jumped into her throat when Felassan started to writhe, his hands clutching at his head as if assaulted by a sudden pitched sound, his face twisted into a pained grimace.

"What’s happening?" she directed the question to Adaar, sharp and crisp, hands to the weapons on her waist. Not in threat, but in dreadful anticipation; Felassan was currently possessed by a spirit. And as if that wasn’t enough to worry about, Ethwin stood shaking like she was about to collapse, herself, eyes on him.

Adaar did not look particularly afraid, but concern wrinkled his brow. "I’m trusting Cole, that’s what’s happening."

Determination, love, loyalty, comradery—schools the emerging guilt, the shame and grief bottled across centuries. But it’s a poisoned base, crumbling. Betrayal—it’s not his, not his either, but it exists alone, and without a face it belongs to it will infect everything. The mind won’t survive the onslaught on its own. Agony that never blossomed before now swirls to life. It’s the same temperature it always was but it’s still too hot, too eager to scour flesh that has grown soft.

Compassion draws into the soul even as it awakens to chaos and is itself burned by it. But it stands steadier in the Fade than it would in the waking world, holding on tighter as it whispers soothing words in the language of spirits.

The soul struggles. He doesn’t even understand the nature of his revival, so long he has spent dead, so long he has spent feeling nothing. He doesn’t remember how to be alive with himself, to be awake with this poison inside him.

Alone, many mages cured of Tranquility were pulled back and forth by themselves, jellyfishes in a current, pieces of parchment on the wind. Compassion would give them a solid base to work from until the worst of the hurt was healed, until they didn’t need him anymore. He will help the Slow Arrow as well. He will remove the winding roots, the worst of the hurt. It won’t be like Pharamond—aching for death, but fearing the cessation of life. 

The Slow Arrow struggles harder, and Compassion burrows deeper in response, clamps on as it combs through countless bleeding visions. Sifting Fade fingers through fraught memories, seeking where the system of pain can begin to be purged, twisted loose.

But within these mixing memories there is one shape, one larger-than-life shadow that looms across them all.

Compassion didn’t recognize it at first, only seeing fragments of the whole while it imbued life back into the dead body. When it does, it hesitates—truly startled, for the first time in a long time.

That’s all it takes.

"Get OUT!" Felassan shouted.

And suddenly Cole came out flying. It was like he’d been released with a great shove, reappearing as if he had never left the waking world, but landing in a heap on the grass in front of them. Immediately the spirit struggled to get himself up and around, palms clawing at the dirt, but his patient was not waiting for him to get his feet under him. 

Felassan was not holding a staff, but his eyes glowed fiercely with magic, the same magic that now coalesced into the palms of his hands. Before anyone had the chance to speak, to so much as raise a hand to him, he let out a wave of energy that crashed against anything and everything in the clearing. Adaar, Briala, Ethwin, Cole—they were all hit in the blast.

Adaar was the only one not knocked off his feet, planting his staff in the dirt to brace himself, but Briala tumbled head over heels through the grass with a yelp. Dirt and twigs soiled her clothes and tangled in her hair, and with a spinning head she wasn’t even sure which direction was up for a moment.

When she finally got upright on her hands and knees, Felassan was already fighting, summoning blasts and bolts of lightning. First at Cole, upon whom his eyes were fixed with a terrifying rage, and then on the former Inquisitor Adaar when he leaped to his defense. Magic cracked and crackled across the clearing, and beside Briala the fallen Ethwin was scooping to grab her own staff. 

What was happening?

She dragged herself to the nearest tree as a gust of wild wind threatened to pull her sideways, almost unable to see with her hair in her face. Felassan—her mentor—his eyes were shooting wildly around the clearing in uncontrollable anger, glowing with mad magic. The ground shook and lurched, the skies roiled, and the smell of ozone reached her nostrils as he ignited the air.

He was shouting something—elvish, wasn’t it? "–llan elgarlen, dirthara-ma! Ar tu na’din!" She didn’t really catch most of it. His words distorted as he raced for Adaar and Cole, deftly dodging a blast of cold magic from the latter and lacerating them with green energy. 

They battled back and forth, circling each other, ripping at ground and foliage in their path—one shouting angrily, the other trying to talk him down. 

Despite the raging elements around them, battering them, Ethwin started to struggle to her feet; Briala watched her staff glow with renewed energy; she had no idea what spell it contained, but she cursed under her breath. She dashed across the distance between them just as a blast from the staff arced over Felassan’s head, drawing his attention away from the Qunari.

He whirled around, saw Ethwin, and lobbed a ball of fire directly at her head. She watched it coming like she’d been nailed to the spot, her eyes huge, and Briala tackled the young girl to the ground just before it hit. The spell blasted into the trunk of the tree behind them instead, nearly singing them with its residual heat.

Blood draining from his face, Felassan froze. 

Figuratively. Though a gust of ice and cold smacked him in the back from behind from the oh-so-subtle Inquisitor Adaar, ice crystals clinging to his robes. The Qunari stood enveloped in the thin sheen of a protective barrier; Cole was, currently, nowhere to be seen, though Briala had a chill up her arms that spoke to the possibility he was still "around".

"Listen," Adaar shouted. "I get it. You’re confused, you’ve been hurt, your emotions are all coming back at once—"

Felassan growled when he faced him again, hands waving together in formation of another blast. "Yes, and I bet you sure feel stupid bringing me back like this now!"

In the meantime, with his back once more turned, Briala risked climbing to her feet. Ethwin, fortunately, stayed low this time.

The Qunari threw his hand down. "We’re trying to help you! Can’t we just talk about this instead of going straight to combat?"

"You let a spirit climb into my head!" The earth beneath their feet rumbled and jumped, a little earthquake that briefly made Briala stumble. "It was kind and soothing and made me feel like everything was fine!"

"I didn’t know." Cole was standing right beside him the whole time; Felassan twitched, finding the spirit at his ear, his face sad under the shadows of his hat. "I should have, but—you weren’t you. It’s the same hurt as his."

"Fenedhis. Away, Compassion! Haven’t you done enough?!" Her mentor all but banished him with a percussive blast of sickly green energy and, though she did not see him take damage, Briala lost sight of the spirit again. Felassan’s angry eyes turned back to the former Inquisitor. "As for you—"

They were almost within arm’s length, now. Briala took a more deliberate step across the grass with a crunch to announce herself. "Felassan."

Whatever he’d been about to say broke off, much to Adaar’s evident relief. Giving a faint flinch, the older elf hesitated, and then half-turned his head in her direction. "Briala. I told you to let it go."

"You did, and you never explained why. But even so, for a few years, I did do just as you asked," she replied evenly, keeping her blades in hand, her stance prepared for further battle. For more of the explosive rage she’d witnessed before; he seemed to have reigned in some since the blast of fire, but even now she could see his hand trembling, faint but still visible to her keen eyes at this distance.

Felassan’s gaze crept around towards her, his feet swiveling in the dirt. "Ah, but things have changed between then and now." She wasn’t sure if it was bitterness or something else she heard in his voice. "... Haven’t they?"

Way in the background, Adaar was talking to someone she couldn’t see. Briala smiled thinly. "You could say that. You see, I lost control over the Eluvians, hahren." Immediately he cursed under his breath; she raised an eyebrow at it, but kept going. "Someone made it to the keystone in the center and changed the pass phrase; none of my people can get through them anymore. 

"But elves still move through them." She stepped carefully closer. "Not elves from the city. Not the Dalish. They’re not even Orlesian."

"Imagine that," Felassan murmured.

"They keep their secrets closer than Orlesian nobles, but thanks to the Inquisitor—whether he knew it or not—there are a few things I’ve learned about them." Briala leveled a hard stare at him. "They call themselves the agents of Fen’harel."

He did not look particularly surprised.

"I know about him." That’s what she’d told him earlier. That was the way she’d forced his hand back with Keeper Mithriel and the other Brunwyn elves. He was Tranquil at the time, so the insinuation hadn’t surprised him then either. But he had made a logical choice, which was the only thing he could be counted on for in that state. 

With an expectant expression he stood waiting, now, so Briala continued. "I think you understand. In order for these ‘agents of Fen’harel’ to have gotten the passphrase to the Eluvians, I think perhaps… there may be a traitor, working with them. It’s gotten me thinking about who I actually can trust, even among my… people."

Still motionless, Felassan now looked down at the blades in her hands, still pointed at him. A cold smile itched up his lips. "Do you think that I betrayed you, Briala?" he asked.

Seconds passed. Nobody spoke.

"I think you are a traitor." The words hung there, heavy, until Briala stepped away and put her daggers back in their sheathes. "... But not of me."

And with that Felassan exhaled, a hand braced against his hip as he cocked his head at her. For a moment, he looked exactly the same as he did in her memory, not this caricature of wild emotion or mutilation of the mind—though his gaze was a bit softer than he ever showed back then. "You know. You look older, da’len. Did you notice that you’ve got a bit of gray on you now?"

Briala snorted. "Well, that might be because I’m not really a ‘da’len’ anymore, hahren. I’m almost—"

She never finished; Felassan grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into a hug, so tight and sudden that she swore it could have knocked the wind out of her. Eyes wide, Briala let out a yelp and for a second tried—unsuccessfully—to push off. "H–hahren," she choked out.

"I hate that you did this but I thought I’d never see you again. Not like—this. Not where I can really see you. —Ulch, look what you’ve done to me," he whispered thickly, trying to mask, with a weak laugh, where emotion threatened to overwhelm his words. His next were quieter still. "...You have no idea what’s coming, da’len."

You never thought you’d see me again? Perhaps giving up was better this round. Briala simply hugged him back, a lump in her throat.

"F-Falon?" Then the voice of Brunwyn’s Second reached them and their embrace abruptly came to an end, both of them breaking away to see her. Ethwin crouched low, her staff in her hands as she kept her distance from them all, as she looked at the elf that her clan had spent these past years taking care of.

Felassan almost appeared startled, as if he had forgotten that she was there. But nonetheless he strode over to her. "...Ir abelas, Ethwin, I… Are you hurt?" She silently shook her head, and he breathed before holding out his hand. "Good. We both owe Briala a thank you for that."

The girl instinctively moved to take his hand, but she paused halfway. Withdrew, like she feared it might burn her. "But what did—what did she mean? Who are the agents of Fen’harel?"

"Yes, thanks Briala," Felassan muttered nearly under his breath. But to Ethwin he only said, reluctantly taking his hand back, "Oh, it’s embarrassing. Let’s just all pretend she didn’t say that part."

Briala scowled behind him. "No, no, no. We’re not done talking just because we had a moment, hahren. You may not have betrayed me, but you still told me lies upon lies. It’s time you gave me straight answers for once. After all this, you owe me that."

"...Uh, I know I’m just a spectator here, but for the record I’m curious too. And I think I have some things I could add," Adaar spoke up as well with an upraised hand. He looked to have recovered from the fight, Cole sitting placidly beside him playing with bugs.

Felassan glared at the two of them, alarmingly fiercely. But then the mood was gone again with Briala, though his look was no less pointed. 

"I’ll have you know that I haven’t given anyone a straight answer to anything in several decades," he snapped. Then his face twisted, and he averted his gaze as he gave a slow, somewhat exasperated sigh. "I’m just. Going to need. A minute."

Chapter Text

When they drew their knives in front of her face, Briala wasn’t sure there was enough energy in her left to be afraid. She’d spent so long traveling and running through her options, grappling between despair and terror and rage so hot that it hollowed her out inside. What was left at the end was exhaustion, and the dizzying memory of blood behind the curtain that kept her awake and sick in the dark.

While the wagon she’d miraculously hitched a ride on was ambushed, and the driver slaughtered, it seemed all she could do was silently pick up her feet and run. Men in scavenged armor outpaced her, pinioned her arms and brought her to a halt, and with their swords slicked with fresh blood all she could do was stare.

Not fear, per se. But something cold and empty just like it, staring her own death in the eye and seeing that they weren’t even anything with grace, like assassins—-just common thugs, of all things.

"Well, now, look what we have here," said one of them, perhaps their leader. His breath smelled of tooth decay, hot against her skin as he turned her face to his. "A rabbit that’s gotten lost on the road."

She felt hollow, emptier with every jeering smile, every whistle of men drunk on bloodlust, such that she didn't even struggle in their grip. What did she care the taunts they made, when what she lost was still playing over and over behind her eyelids? The fragile hope Celene gave her dashed with the slaughtered wagon several yards away.

Though when one of them put their filthy hands on her—that, that got her to react, shouting and bucking in their grasp like a reflex. It was to take the money at her belt—what few funds she was able to take with her from the estate before fleeing into the night. The pouch was now in the hands of a gap-toothed bandit with a filthy beard, who laughed and held it aloft.

His smile lasted only until one of his circling comrades burst into flames.

With a wild spike of adrenaline, Briala pulled free in the wake of the humans’ roaring shouts as sound and fury reigned around her. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen before, fire and crackling lightning and the ground roiling under her feet. An onset of chaos so sudden that she didn’t know at first from whence it came, and neither did the bandits it seemed. 

But it was a lone figure, a long gnarled staff in his hand, who emerged from the trees beside the road. An elf, though that was all Briala was able to register while narrowly avoiding being struck by his magic. Lightning snaked its way through bodies, bursts of flame caught on leather armor—roots clung stubbornly to booted feet. 

Even though the man was outnumbered several men to his one, even though by now the bandits had caught on to who was responsible for the attack, he danced around their blades without fear as he felled them one by one. Briala was forgotten and huddled down against the ground, shaking, realizing quickly that she could avoid most of the attacks as long as she stayed low.

The fight lasted about a minute. When it was over, there was not a single bandit who had not been left a charred corpse upon the ground. Standing among the corpses, brushing soot off of his sleeve, was the elf. Dressed in worn and humble clothing like a wandering hermit, with old robes that he stored his staff away in as the thing dwindled down to the size of a stick. 

As she lifted her head, he took in the sight of her and acted as if he hadn't.

"Here I thought I wasn't going to get any excitement on the road!" he said merrily, picking through the litter of bodies. "That’s the marvelous thing about this country; there’s no shortage of idiots with swords."

Whatever he found in their pockets, he kept. Except the small pouch of coins; that he held in his palm, as if testing the weight of it, before tossing it to the huddled and shaking Briala.

"But as fun as that was, I have miles to go before I sleep. So!" He pointed. "That way’s North, and that way is West. I’d keep off the road from now on if I were you. Dareth shiral."

He turned his back to her, and the sight stirred something in her stomach; the real panic, perhaps, that the bandits hadn’t managed to provoke. Briala scooped up her pouch and then rose up on her knees, lifting her voice. "Don’t go! You’re Dalish, aren’t you?"

The stranger laughed out loud, and then turned back around. "What?"

"The Dalish. The–the elves who travel these lands," she said, faltering at the smirk he was giving her in reply. "You’re one of them… aren’t you?"

The stranger’s smile grew. "I am? How did you figure that out?" He stalked back to her, and with one hand indicated his delicately marked face. "Oh! It’s the tattoos, isn’t it? My vallaslin has told you this?"

"Yes?" she suddenly felt very uncertain, carefully easing back from his shadow, loathe to cower. "I admit yours are the first I’ve ever seen, but I was sure..."

"You’re awfully confident addressing a stranger with no prior knowledge about him, aren't you?" Briala's rescuer said, coming to a stop in front of her. He paused a moment, head cocking to the side as he considered her, and then pressed his hands together. "Well, da’len, let’s say I am Dalish. In that case, go ahead! tell your other friends at home about the brave Dalish mage who rescued you; I give you my permission."

Briala bowed her head. "I am sorry I offended you. I mean—ir abelas." And then, because when she next looked up she saw him making a face, she quickly continued, "I asked because I—because I’m looking to join a Dalish clan! So I thought I could join your clan, if I may."

"...My clan isn’t looking to fill out its ranks," he murmured at length, staring down his tattooed face at her. There was nothing she could read in his expression, until he leaned down and smiled patiently, his arms folded behind his back. "Not with little girls who can’t even defend themselves from a handful of bandits, anyway. Go back to the alienage you crawled out of, da’len."

His merciless words and smile stuck a dagger into her heart. 

Someone else might have begged at this point. Briala could instead feel a childhood of bard training, of equally merciless courts, smothering the reflex. She scrambled to her feet, watching the Dalish elf’s expression cool as he straightened. "You would be doing well by taking me to your people. I have skills," she began, her voice only shaking a little. "Perhaps your rescue did not make this clear, but I do know how to fight—I’ve been trained in the ways of a bard. And I’m familiar with your enemies in Orlesian society, how they work..."

"I have enemies in Orlesian society? I didn’t know I was so popular," the mage replied as he tilted his head to the other side.

Briala raised her voice, as she scrambled for the words she’d been practicing in her head for so long. "I can help you, all of you! I know—the woman who will become this country’s empress. I know her personally."

And with that the last of the amusement on his face faded, and he offered a shrug with his arms still folded like they were. "No, thanks."

"You think I will be a burden, but I, I swear to you I wouldn’t be." Truth be told, she was beginning to get desperate. A kernel of panic was settling into her; it was madness to come this close and not know how to talk her way through. 

He backed away from her, clearly with intent to resume his walk. "You probably would be, actually, but that’s not it. You don't know what you ask." 

"...I know that if I don’t go with you or find some other Dalish I will die, alone in this wilderness," Briala said, gesturing to the broken wagon behind him. "I have nowhere else to go. There is no family or home waiting for me. In an alienage or otherwise."

The color of the mage’s gaze changed at her words; as Briala swallowed the lump forming in her throat he fell silent, stayed silent for a long time.

All at once he was moving again, heaving a sigh and then smiling wryly down at the girl. "Actually, I suppose there is something I can use you for." He took his pack off his shoulder and tossed it into her arms, much to her startled bemusement. "I need a pair of hands to carry my pack. Does your special bard training qualify you for that?"

They traveled together for the rest of the day. Briala struggled to keep up with the man who moved effortlessly through the forests that she’d never traversed in her life, only assured he would not leave her behind because she was carrying his pack. No idea where they were going, or who he was, or even—after a time—where they even were. But none of that mattered. She’d found someone. Anyone. She found a future after Lady Mantillon ripped her meagre one to shreds, if only he decided to let her stay.

Once the sun went down, they made camp—Briala didn’t know if they’d actually gone miles or not. But the mage laid himself down and closed his eyes, instantly asleep while she spent the whole night awake. 

The next morning he opened his eyes again, instantly awake. And as Briala groggily came to from the stupor she’d slipped under, he sat down in front of her and said, "Alright then! My name is Felassan." Felassan smiled, though this one was the most hollow of them all, even if at the time she didn’t think much of it. "And Briala, I would very much like to hear more about this… future-empress you mentioned."

***

He had a pretty strong reaction, actually, when the conversation came around to Celene.

A slip of her tongue in retrospect. Briala had only meant to point out to Adaar that she would need to send word from Antiva soon, to come up with something to tide her lover over before her absence from her side became… problematic.

"Lover?" Felassan had interrupted her, his face changing. Starting out quiet, building. "Excuse me, but all I’d heard was that you were part of the empress’s court. You’re back with—?"

Briala cleared her throat, keenly aware of the awkward feeling in her chest to have to explain this to him. "It’s… complicated, but it was one of the developments that ended the civil war, hahren."

"Ended the—ha!—ended the–?" He stood back from her, scrubbing his hands over his face. "You’re back together with Celene. Unbelievable…"

"As I said, it’s not as simple as—"

"Did you FORGET everything that happened?" Loud. So loud. Briala stepped back in shock, Felassan fixing her with a furious glare. His voice was almost as rough as it had been when fighting Adaar earlier. "Were you not there? Do you not remember what she did to you? To yours! To even her own people? And then you gave her what she wanted anyway?"

In frustration, Briala said back. "That isn’t it!"

And Felassan laughed, seeming to not even hear her. "Elves in academies! Years and years and all she gave you was elves in academies! All she gave you was a few years of peace, just a few years of less beatings and a few less starving children in the streets! What else did you get, a fancy title? A little gesture of goodwill here and there?— does she have the power to help you or doesn’t she? "

His body once more crackled with magic; Ethwin had hidden behind one of the trees, once more shaking with terror, while Adaar tensed back into his fighting stance and Cole—ah, right, Cole—stood upright beside him.

Briala held up her hand at them all, signalling them to stop, as if she knew better this man with raging emotions she’d never seen awake in him before. "Hahren—"

At this point her old mentor wasn’t paying attention to her, or anyone, really. He smelled like ozone and had an aura that rose the hairs on the back of her neck as he glared at nothing, pacing wildly and ranting at no one. "She doesn’t love you! She doesn’t even listen to you! All that time all that hoping and waiting and scraping and bowing to her expecting a sliver of that love to trickle down—and what did it get you? Did you not learn? When will it be enough? You really went to the end mourning someone who AGH you miserable old—"

And then Cole put a hand on his shoulder, and Felassan’s voice had broken off in a croak. His hands twitched; as if he’d been winded he took deep breath after deep breath, and the energy coalescing around his body slowly leeched back out into the sky and ground. The storm clouds that had gathered around their little clearing dissipated, and some of the tension with it.

Felassan’s next words had been considerably quieter. "I… forget what I was talking about."

Briala wasn’t sure what to do with it, except that she would have to introduce information to him a bit more carefully from now on.

By contrast it was much less volatile to ask about the Dread Wolf, the man who had been his murderer.

"So when you said you ‘knew’ about him, you really didn’t know anything at all," Felassan mused, sitting beside her in relative calm while the hour turned lighter. Cooled down enough to speak, though it was still tense. 

She sighed. "I knew something. But I was bluffing, yes."

And he let out a loud laugh, pressing his fist to his mouth. A laugh that went on a touch too long, too loud, but which ended bitterly. "And I could have called your bluff if I had it in me to take that risk."

"I could have bluffed again, if you had," Briala retorted airily; Felassan gave a snort and stood, pacing through the small circle that comprised the clearing.

"I don’t understand why she needed to use a bluff in the first place," said the former Inquisitor Adaar with a wrinkled brow, bracing his elbow against his knee. "We’re all on the same side now, aren’t we?"

Felassan raised an eyebrow his way. It was his first interruption; Adaar had been quiet for the most part, even during the rage-filled outbursts when he was ready to defend against the angry magical elf again. So content to take in the conversation between a pupil and her former master. If she didn’t know better, Briala would have described him as demure. "Are we, qunari? Tell me, what do you know of the Dread Wolf?"

Adaar sat up taller as Felassan pivoted and approached; they were both at eye level even when one of them was standing. Or, at least, they were close. His staff he’d balanced beside himself on the log he used for a sitting stool, easily in reach of his remaining hand—Briala thought, before watching it suddenly wobble to the dirt.

But Adaar didn’t seem to even notice. "I know he’s a person, if that’s what you mean." He leaned back, face set grimly. "I know what he has planned for this world, and I know he has to be stopped."

"Ah, you are informed," Felassan mused, propping up his chin on his hand, almost suspicious in his manner. "Better informed than I thought you would be."

At this, the qunari chuckled. "I just didn't know Briala knew." Then he paused, the familiar sheepishness passing over his expression. "He was a friend of mine, or—I think he was. Didn't know he was the Dread Wolf at the time, though. Introduced himself as Solas."

It still went beyond the pale to Briala, to hear that name associated with the Dread Wolf, even less to imagine the Dread Wolf among them. She’d met Solas only once. He’d scandalized a single Orlesian historian with his choice in hats and did nothing of particular interest for the entire evening, except to chat with the Inquisitor. She wasn’t the fool that so many of the nobility were, to look on this unassuming elven man and think him beneath suspicion. But even suspicion in Orlais had its limits.

"Mm, introducing yourself to polite society as Fen’harel doesn’t go over well these days—I mean, did it ever?—but," Felassan said with a flick of his eyes. "I’m sure Ethwin over there can attest to that."

Ethwin said nothing. Much like Adaar she’d just listened to the exchange, her arms curled around her knees, a slight bit removed from the rest of them. Cole sat beside her now, peacefully braiding flowers together and handing them to her; with every crown she received, the girl would carefully take them apart again. Her body tensed at the mention of her name.

Briala wondered if she was the only one who noticed the way her old teacher would watch her out of the corner of his vision. Anxious tells left and right from someone who taught her to swallow her tears when she was barely grown.

Adaar nodded, and shifted his position on his seat. "What about you? I’m guessing you were one of his agents, like the ones at the Exalted Council."

"... You could say that." Felassan sucked on his teeth. "Though I don't know who you met there. I expect they're a little more green than I am, I've been at it for far longer than most."

Those bright eyes gleamed. "Far longer, as in—as in you're an-" A stop, a careful consideration of words. As if trying to hide his question from the others present. "Are you like Abelas? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?"

"You Thedosians, assuming all elvhen know each other," Felassan replied, clicking his tongue. 

"I mean, you clearly know who I’m talking about."

He cackled.

And then lost all the mirth on his face, replaced with a tight grimace instead. He paced quickly away, turning towards the shadows, and then back again. Eyes narrowing, a curled lip, a snarl that faded as quickly as it arrived, until he was hollow, and turned back around again. Hands clenching and then releasing. "We, who were born knowing each other. …Ah, until we didn't. Yes, I knew Abelas. I knew Abelas, as I knew Solas, as I knew Fen’harel , as I knew—countless others who don’t know me, anymore."

Adaar massaged the base of one of his horns. "You were helping Solas when he woke up."

"Before." Felassan turned back to Adaar again, and as he did his gaze swept across Briala. "You talked about the eluvians. He has them now?"

"Is that what he ordered you to do? To take the eluvians?"

"More specifically, what he said was ‘if the Shiralasan has survived, not all hope is lost’." He sneered at the confused looks on all their faces. "Oh, you don’t know that word? The Shiralasan, the roads between worlds, mirrors the doors between them. A journey that should have taken months reduced to days, or even hours, on their pathways. All of you should know this word."

Speaking slowly, if only in respect to the sudden tension, Adaar said, "The eluvian network. The crossroads."

Felassan regarded Adaar as if the qunari were the last person that he had personally wanted to answer him. And then nodded. "Yes. The single most useful tool in Thedas, and the most neglected—until now, anyway. He wanted it. So I needed it. So, everyone needed it."

Briala felt a cold pit in her stomach.

"I didn’t actually get my hands on it, of course." Felassan didn’t even look at her, going blithely on. "You could say that I failed my mission. And you see, I died because of that. Well—Solas made the attempt, anyway."

"But he’s got them now, and you’re still alive," said Adaar

"Both things you should be very worried about, by the way," Felassan retorted. "But yes! And being Tranquil, I didn’t have access to that knowledge until now."

It was a game of back and forth between them. An interrogation of sorts, were Adaar the sort to interrogate. Fitting his former role, he was a deeply inquisitive man, by all accounts. "So now that you have it, what are you going to do with it?" His question was met with silence, and so he kept on, "Come on, I hardly think you’re going to just go back to the Dalish and live among them until the world ends."

Until the world ends, Briala repeated silently.

"We wouldn’t take him back." 

It was Ethwin who said it. Her first words in quite some time, as she lurched to her feet; whatever fear had overwhelmed her before was transformed to anger now. "We don’t take in harellan like him."

"Ethwin—"

She shut Adaar up with a glance, a snap, "No!" But she returned to the real target of her ire quickly, stomping over underbrush until Felassan was staring down at her. "We looked after you when you couldn’t look after yourself. We called you our friend, we took care of you for all these years. But if everything you’re saying is true, you were a servant of the Dread Wolf! You pretended to help the Dalish, but you were working with our greatest enemy. We never meant anything to you!"

Felassan blinked slowly. "That’s true, you didn’t."

She flinched, and bit back, "The Inquisitor may have promised to help us, but you —I’m going to tell the Keeper. I’m going to tell her everything and she’ll never let you back in."

"I have no intention of returning to Clan Brunwyn. So you may as well do that."

A statement spoken not casually, but deliberately, transparently. The child backed away like she’d been struck. The wound took a moment to settle, to join with whatever thoughts had been percolating in her mind all this time. Then Ethwin brandished her staff and started to march, pushing roughly past the rest of them as she set out in the direction they'd originally come, the whole of her practically burning.

Felassan just let her go at first, watching unobtrusively from the edges of his eyelids. Until she had just reached the edge of the clearing; then, he suddenly squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, and said, "You didn’t know Shiralasan, but there’s another elven saying, da'len. It was old, even in my time. Vir suledin nadas."

Ethwin stopped so abruptly she almost stumbled over herself; she half turned to get a look back with red-rimmed eyes, bracing her hand against a tree. 

He stepped in her direction, though no more than a few paces. "Do you know what that one means?" 

Frozen in place Ethwin furrowed her brows at him. The hurt was still there, with the confusion and the anger. "We… must… endure," she said; when she spoke, her voice flexed with the strain to remain steady.

"That's what it says. I asked what it means," said Felassan. This time Ethwin was empty of an answer to give him, so he just shook his head, taking a deep breath as if summoning something to the front of his voice. Some view caught his eye in the middle distance. "...When the Veil arose and the humans came, the elves forgot themselves. That’s the line, I think, isn’t it? We, my people, we’ve said it about you, too."

Silence. Briala found a shiver running up her spine. A curious sensation that drove her to push herself to her feet, approaching where Felassan stood. He didn’t even acknowledge her as she drew near; his attention was still on Brunwyn’s trembling Second.

"Wars and suffering and slavery, and what broke us was when our children began to age. They—you—began to see the world through different eyes than ours, and we were losing you over and over again," said Felassan. "So we became bitter, and told ourselves that what we fought so hard for, you forgot. 

"It was us who forgot ourselves. When we gave you up, we forgot… what those words meant. While your people…endured."

As he trailed off into the air, Ethwin’s free hand was clasped over her mouth, her eyes glimmering wet. She stayed like that for only a second before she finally disappeared into the sparse forest, not a sound more. A girl who came to this clearing with a friend, and left behind the barbed arrow that replaced him.

Briala put her hand on Felassan’s shoulder and he turned his head away from the trees. She could feel something great and painful shuddering inside him, and his lips twisted as if he had bitten into something foul as he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes once more, like trying to softly gouge them out.

Though when it was over, it was renewed rage she saw in them, and he pulled away from her hand. "You think that Compassion can save me," he spat. Not at her, she realized a second after—Cole stood like a scarecrow in their field of vision. Dipping back into reality, evidently. "What unrivaled arrogance."

"I could have talked to her," the spirit whispered.

"I didn’t want you to."

"It’s not too late."

But Felassan only gave a smirk, cruel in its curve. "So you say."

A familiar pain rang against her to see it; Briala wanted to say something, could feel the urge in her mouth. But what could she say? She also knew that cruelty. She knew where it came from, knew that no amount of well-meaning words could wipe it away. Not here, surrounded by strangers, drowning in a tidal wave of feeling. 

At least she thought she did. Maybe it was also arrogant of her to think that. To suppose that she and Felassan were burdened by the same kind of accusing faces and memories, when even at her years his experience clearly, vastly, outstripped hers.

It all tangled her tongue, so it was Adaar who poked in again, sober after Ethwin's outburst. "...You never answered my question. Now that you’re cured, are you going to go after Solas alone?"

Felassan stared at him incredulously, and then scoffed, "You so desperately want me to declare my side, don’t you?"

"I think you of all people should understand that I'm in a difficult position now," he grumbled. "And I’d love to have some more help . ...Help that knows what I’m up against, especially."

How much lighter it had gotten now, the sun blinking through the blackly silhouetted tree branches. Felassan shaded his brow, pulling back loose hair that had gotten into his face. He never used to wear it all this long. "Hm. Did I ever once say I was going to help you?" He fell silent with that like he was in thought, perhaps enjoying as Adaar’s patience slowly crumbled. Then, finally, he faced him and said, "Fen’harel struck me down. If he learns of my survival, he will kill me. He must kill me. So if you want to know where I stand, let that suffice. And as a further note, I’ll be grateful if you don’t bring me up to him, should you see him again.

"Now, as for you, Briala…" he finished, addressing her at last. Whatever coldness he showed to Adaar was melting with it. He just looked... unhappy. "We’ll see if I thank you for what you’ve done, in the end."

Taken aback, Briala only replied, "I suppose we will."

He retrieved his staff, letting it grow to its full size; as much a goodbye as what he said next. "Anyway, I hope when I say we’ll meet again, I’m not lying. Dareth shiral, da'len."

The scent of gathered mana met Briala’s nose; she was prepared to surrender to its air of finality as her old mentor started to cast, but Adaar called out, relentless, "—Wait! Why would Solas have to kill you?"

Felassan paused; the big man now cast a shadow on him against the Antivan sunrise. He stepped out from under it, wary and weary but with a final brush of mirthless humor as he replied, "I know where the bodies are buried."

That was the last line, before he was consumed in a corona of light; when it was gone, to Briala's shock, in his place was a bird that darted off into the orange sky like a shot. Small, plain of markings, unassuming as it took its place in the flocks that rose to greet the dawn.

"I think you were right, Marquise; this was worth the trip," Adaar mused as they watched it.

Standing with the breath stolen from her lungs, she might have lost the bird in that instant. But Briala imagined there was something crooked in its flight pattern, so that she could still pick him out until he was a mere dot on the horizon. Somehow she was quite certain that it would not be the last time she saw it. But where he would be in the meantime, she couldn’t even begin to guess.

"He shouldn’t be alone," said Cole anxiously. "He doesn’t remember how to be real."

Briala turned from the sky, adjusting the parts of herself that had drifted out of place as her mind raced. If someone was fixing to end the world, then great change was the least of what was coming to Orlais. And if Felassan had his work to do, she had hers. "It’s enough that he is real," she replied. Though it wasn’t even really a response to the boy, almost spoken under her breath. She didn’t know what it was. "And he’ll know where to find me."

She thought it was an expression of hope on her part. But it could also have been a safeguard against the current of fear.

The slow arrow, she remembered. A victory or a loss when one least expected it. One she’d used with all sense of triumph, never quite understanding that it had been pointed at her own throat... not even sure of when that had stopped being the case.

Of course, the arrow in that story was only slow until it fell.

Maker. If it hadn't already fallen, it did seem like it was only a matter of time.