Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey, Trouble,” Neve’s voice carried through the library to where Rook leaned against the railing, book in hands and attention stuck on it like a mosquito in tree sap. They shifted a little, flipping a page, but didn’t quite register Neve until she spoke again. “Rook? Fading out on me?” She ascended the stairs wrapping around the side of the lighthouse, metal prosthetic clicking in its tell-tale way. This made Rook lift their head, finally, from the book in their hands. “There you are.” 

Neve smiled, going and leaning against the rail right next to Rook, crossing one leg over the other and tilting her head backwards. She was smiling and Rook’s attention was captured, the book forgotten, and words momentarily. The quirk of Neve’s lips showed that she’d noticed this, and found it amusing. The way her gaze lingered and flicked side to side, down, and back again to meet Rook’s eyes showed that she was trying to piece together what had caught Rook’s attention so before, and maybe trying to predict how they might greet her.

“Hey, Neve,” Rook finally managed, closing the book in their hand and setting it on the table nearby. “Something on? Or just missed me?”

“It has been rather quiet around the Lighthouse, these past couple years..” Neve looked down to the library floor. A round stone table was still set up there, and there were still chairs for each person who had accompanied Rook in their desperate (and luckily successful) hunt for the ancient elven gods. “But it’s not just that, today. Here.” She held out a rolled up note, bearing the broken wax seal of House Pavus, now the ruling house of Tevinter after Dorian Pavus had worked to claim the seat of Archon in the aftermath, stepping up to rebuild Minrathous and oust the last of the Venatori supremacists  and their sympathizers.

“What’s this? Invitation to Dorian’s birthday party?” Rook joked, carefully unrolling it between their fingers. Dorian’s fine hand was written on the page, not that of a scribe’s and not something written with magic. Must be important then. Rook joked, they loved to joke, but they scanned the note quickly. Dorian sending letters wasn't infrequent, but they usually looked different and weren’t personally written. Just updated on the status of Minrathous, or passing along correspondence for Inquisitor Lavellan, who was busy rebuilding the south. 

Greetings Rook,

My apologies for the sudden message, I know this is quite a shift from our usual correspondence, but it is not without reason. In my work to remove the Venatori fully from power, I have discovered many things. I am also unfortunately held back with restraints related to my position, regardless of the efforts to rebuild and helping my amatus. I know you’ve got your own hands full with the Veilgaurd and many of your companions have gone off on their own ways for the moment, but if you can track any of them down, I have a mission of great importance. 

I’ve located a Venatori cell that has fled to Arlathan Forest. Ordinarily I would send simple mercenaries Or contact the Veiljumpers. They’d have those Venatori dead right quick, problem solved, job well done, time to have a celebratory drink! But this isn’t a simple task, this time. These Venatori are different I fear. They have copies of my old mentor, Gereon Alexius’s research. It was dangerous research involving magic that could warp time. We believed it was only possible to actually travel through time because of the breach and the various rifts. Once the majority of them were closed and the breach forever sealed, the problem should have been solved; the only thing time magic could do was slow time briefly or speed it up (in short, you know how it is, blah blah blah magical theory.) Now with Solas reinforcing the veil with his life-force, things should be safer than ever from time magic shenanigans. 

But these Venatori are different. They have powerful artifacts and they’re searching for more, and I have real fear they may manage to crack the secret to time travel, and undo events retroactively. These are dangerous magics to be dealing with and you're the best we have. If you’re able to take this on, contact me as soon as possible. 

Sincerely yours,

Archon Dorian Pavus-Lavellan of Minrathous.

Rook scanned the letter once. Twice. They rolled it up, opened it, read it again, to increasing concern from Neve.

“Rook?” She reached out, touching their cheek. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?”

“Time magic…” Rook sighed .”I read a lot about the theoretical magic surrounding time travel, and the events of Redcliffe during the time of the inquisition— But… Time magic!” 

“We need to put a stop to this as soon as we can. Bellara is probably with the Veiljumpers, she’d be able to help,” Neve put a hand on Rook’s shoulder, rubbing her thumb along the seam of their tunic.

“Of course, I’ll send the letters I need right away. I’m still..” Rook shook their head. “Just more venatori to kill, yeah? Happy to do some of that, instead of sitting around the lighthouse all the time.”

Neve chuckled softly. “Trouble finds trouble.” She quipped, and Rook laughed. They grabbed their book, and went to go down to their desk to start drafting letters. Venatori, time magic, and Arlathan Forest didn’t sound like a good mix, even with the gods two years dead and the Venatori flushed out from most official seats of power. Rook listened to Neve depart the library, the sound of her footsteps clicking off and fading as the doors shut behind her and all sound (the fade had a hum to it— always in the background for Rook, waking or not, in the lighthouse or not. They were a mage after all, and they were attuned to the fade and magic.) became secondary with another task to focus on.

Back on a mission, how exciting.

***

Arlathan forest was green this time of year, the leaves many shades of emerald and even jade, but some trees were different, adorned with white leaves or dozens of flowers in various colors, like purple and blue. Rook was never sure if it had to do with the kind of leaves or if they were affected by the magic that seeped into the ground and the air in Arlathan. Still, it was breath-taking every time they stepped through the eluvians and into the veiljumper camp— Except it resembled a stronghold more as time passed. Any trace of rubble had been cleared away and there were many branching pathways, built and completed with repurposed elven artifacts. Floating watchtowers moved through the air and there were dozens of workshops open to the air or out of aravels that could move through the forest easily to collect new artifacts during expeditions. 

The veiljumpers had grown in recent years, many people who had seen the destruction of Minrathous had come to the veiljumpers after, hoping to study new magic to protect themselves or others. Or to help rebuilding efforts for all of the magical seals, protections, and other casual uses in Minrathous that needed to be replaced, rebuilt, reinforced. Rook went up the stairs near the eluvian, Neve following behind. 

“The veiljumper camp is as busy as ever,” Neve commented, watching a group of them race past towards the forest. A few new recruits, but some familiar faces– Gus the Nug trotted along behind, wearing a specially designed harness now. “Bellara said she would meet us, but I’m not sure where—”

“Rook! Neve!” Bellara’s voice carried across the courtyard. Rook spun and looked up, seeing Bellara high above on a newly built battlement, which had various magical focuses that could activate shields or see far into the distance. She waved her arm high. Next to her Rook recognized the willowy form of Emmrich, and wasn’t surprised to see Strife leaned against the rail beside him, waving more casually than Bellara was. “Up here! There’s a staircase!” Rook looked, and saw a staircase made of floating stones. Gentle blue magic held them aloft, the stones bouncing just occasionally. There were few mages who were so masterful at arranging lithomancy, so it was a different kind of magic behind this. Rook could feel it running through the air, plucking the fade in careful resonance. They tried to focus on that, rather than the thought of someone who could really help this place. Moving stone as easily as breathing, the earth responding like an old friend who had known her for decades… She just—

“Rook?” Neve interrupting their thoughts was familiar, and they were eternally grateful. 

“I’m fine,” They responded quickly, knowing how far away they looked when their thoughts drifted in such a way. “Let’s go. I’m eager to see the others again.” They ascended the stairs quickly, and went up to Bellara immediately for a hug. 

“Rook! I was so excited when I got your letter– I mean, not about the venatori in the forest again! But that you were coming! And we’re adventuring again, just like old times!” Bellara hugged back hard, and went to hug Neve as well (nearly taking the detective off her feet, but Neve laughed regardless) 

“It is lovely to see you again, my friend. You have spectacular timing,” Emmrich went over for a looser hug, shorter but still just as warm. “I was visiting Strife during the spring intersession when we received your message. The other watchers at the Grand Necropolis found the matter greatly concerning and Manfred said there were terrible stirrings in the Fade coming from Arlathan forest— A great deal of magical energy is being manifested by the Venatori here, but still subtle enough that only spirits can tell just yet.”

“It isn’t good, I won’t lie…” Rook sighed. “But we’ll put a stop to it. That’s what we do… It is great to see you again, by the way. It does feel like it’s been a long time, everyone’s been so busy.”

“I’d still hardly say that our mission was “the old days”, Bellara.” Neve let out a laugh as the elven mage bounced back. She folded her hands behind her back and rocked on the balls of her feet. She always had a lot of energy around her, the fade buzzing like electricity. It could bring a smile to Rook’s face even in the darkest of times. 

“It was hardly yesterday, but we are still dealing with a lot of the damage left behind. Not all the artifacts in Arlathan have been calmed yet.” Strife walked over, grizzled and grim as always, but he seemed a lot softer around the edges with Emmrich around. “The venatori will probably use this to their advantage in order to hide. I sent out scouts to deal with the artifacts and to see if they could find any sign of the venatori.”

“The Venatori are truly a frustrating adversary— They never seem fully stamped out.” Emmrich scowled. 

“Like magical, racist cockroaches..” Rook sighed. “We’ll get rid of these ones though, the lot of them. We should get supplies and meet some of the scouts out in the forest, see if they’ve found any traces to follow? Some leads.”

“Someone say leads?” Neve lifted her head. “Didn’t think they had those out in the woods… You think though, with the fade as raw as it still is here… Maybe I could find some echoes of the venatori? Especially if even the spirits can feel them here.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, Neve. I may be able to help as well, with my own abilities. Yes, as soon as we have supplies, we should head off!” Emmrich smiled. Strife gave a soft laugh.

“Just be careful. There should be veiljumpers nearby anywhere in the forest, if you need help, call one of them.” Strife looked at Emmrich, even if he spoke to all of those in the groups. He and Emmrich had been incredibly close through the past couple years, really hitting it off after their first few dates. 

“Thank you, Strife.” Rook nodded to him. “Maybe when these venatori are dealt with, we can all have dinner here in the Veiljumpers fortress?”

“Oh! That sounds lovely, you know we just finished building a proper kitchen in this place! There’s even a couple cooks from Minrathous who wanted to help the Veiljumpers,” Bellara piped in, pointing across the way to a new small building made of white stone and with a chimney puffing smoke every so often.

“This place is really growing.” Rook gasped a little, following Bellara’s pointed finger. After a moment they caught Neve staring, a small soft smile on her face.

“It’s impressive. Reminds me of all the refugees in the lighthouse during the attack on Minrathous.. I mean— more organized and less stress going on, of course but.. people are really making the most of this part of the forest.” Neve stepped back, a signal to Rook that she was ready to get moving. Rook nodded and started down the stairs again, the others following as well. Emmrich gave Strife a quick kiss goodbye.

“We have to protect this from the Venatori. If they succeed, then.. Well, I was only able to send so much in our letter but it’s safe to say this place would never come to be.” Rook went to make sure they had all the necessary supplies to last in the forest for at least a week, and in case they got lost, or if there was a storm. Rook would rather be prepared. 

“Of course, it would be terrible. Even thinking of it.. Time magic… it’s a wild idea, but it’s been done before.”

“During the inquisition, yes. Dorian said the Venatori were using the research of the man behind that. It shouldn’t work because there’s no breach, but in Arlathan the magic is… well, we all know how it is. If it’s actually possible to use that.. Bellara, what do you think?” Rook looked over their shoulder at her. The group was moving towards the road, each of them now carrying a pack and their preferred weapons.

“It’s an insane idea! It would probably require a lot of tearing in the fade, like the breach, or it otherwise being in shreds.. But with the raw magic in Arlathan and the artifacts, it might be possible. But the mages performing the spell would have to be immensely powerful— it would take blood magic if it’s even possible at all. And I mean a lot of blood magic. Hundreds of lives. Especially if the veil was thicker where the Venatori are camped up. They’d want somewhere where the veil is incredibly thin. But there’s not a lot of places like that outside of Arlathan in the north. Maybe the crossroads, but the Venatori can’t get in there anymore and the only working, unlocked eluvian is here. Unless maybe they tried using blood magic to open the fade directly and— Well anyways, maybe it’s possible. So that would be really really bad. But either way they’re going to kill a lot of people.” Bellara explained, speaking at quite a fast pace. Rook was always surprised by this, but more so once they’d started to be able to keep up with the rambling.

“That means they’re probably going to kill a lot of slaves.” Neve scowled. “Bastards.”

“We won’t let them.” Rook reassured the pair. “We won’t let them.”

***

“Venatori spotted! Rook!” A Veiljumper scout came running up the road towards them. Rook’s staff was still hot from the fire magic they’d used to kill a number of demons that had been stalking through the forest. The scout nearly got a fireball from how startled Rook was, but they realized before that happened.

“What’s the word? Did they see you?” Rook went over, waiting for the scout to catch their breath.

“They- no, they didn’t see me! But they— I wasn’t alone.” The scout painted. “Veiljumper Scout Nina. I was traveling with Threnil and Meradin. They got captured, put in these cages with blood magic locks— I’m just.. I’m not a mage and certainly not a southern templar. I couldn’t pick the locks and they nearly caught me when I tried so I thought I’d head back. Then I heard your fighting. Please, you have to help get my friends out!” Nina— an elven woman, with short blond hair ruffled with leaves and some stun to her face with sweat— was wide eyed, scared.

“Take a deep breath, Nina,” Rook reached and put a hand on her shoulder. “Where did this happen? Show us the way and you can get back to safety.”

“Right. Come on, it’s not far.” Nina took a shaky breath, turning and going to lead the way. Down the path, which was between trees and lined with rubble and crumbling stones, Rook started to have an itchy feeling along the back of their neck. Blood magic. Had they stared? Or was it just the Venatori, some of whom used blood magic as casually as a levitation spell.

“They must be close. Blood magic.” Neve made a disgusted face. 

“Blood— are my friends okay?” Nina’s voice rose a little, despite her attempts to keep it quiet and avoid alerting Venatori.

“It isn’t strong yet, they’re okay. we’ll put a stop to this… You should head back to where it’s safe now, Nina.” Emmrich tried to calm the girl. 

“Okay… Please, save my friends.. but you all be safe as well.” Nina turned, running to disappear into the forest.

Rook let out a soft sigh. “If they took those two Veiljumpers, there might be more who are trapped.”

“We’ll free them all.” Bellara swore. “But.. this seems like there may be more venatori than expected. Are we sure that we’re enough to do this..?”

“We have to be. We can’t turn back now, or we might be too late.” Rook moved forward, leather gloves creaking as they gripped their staff tight. They couldn’t turn back, or it would be their fault. Whatever it takes. “Come on.” 

“Right behind you, Trouble.” Neve agreed, holding her scepter at the ready. 

“I’ll hide our trail.” Bellara went to the back of the group.

The further they went into the forest the more blood magic Rook could feel. It rang over their skin, prickling across their veins, tugging at the veil. Blood magic was powerful, but it was hungry and the resonance made that rather clear. The venatori camp came into view. More than just a smattering of tents, there were small shelter structures and rolling cages. People were sitting or crouching inside, some people laying. Rook was relieved that many didn’t look too worse for wear, but some were holding injuries and looked like they’d been forced to give blood for the magic. 

Rook went and crouched in the foliage, overlooking the camp. There were areas with venatori mages a milling about but they spotted several small ritual sites leading up the path to a larger structure. An elven ruin held up with scaffolding and partially rebuilt with wood. Magic glowed from within. The main part of the base, and probably where they meant for the time ritual was meant to take place. The whole structure was a spire, much of the stone floating, like it was memorializing how high the tower must have been in its heyday. 

“Oh, this is bad..” Bellara whispered. No Venatori we’re close enough to hear but the atmosphere was tense. “Look at the rings on top of that structure— It’s like a massive resonance amplifier. Any ritual done underneath that, especially one with blood magic— it might rip a hole right into the fade.”

Rook’s gaze was drawn upwards, rings did indeed float at the top of the structure, twisting and shifting. Gold and silver metal made into rings that moved like a gyroscope around a floating orb made of what looked like cooled volcanic rock. 

“Well… shit,” Rook sighed. “Let’s go. There’s no time to waste.”

They went to step out of the bushes, clutching their staff close.

“Wait— we don’t want to rush in. We’re outnumbered. Maybe there’s a way to sneak in and interrupt the ritual first?” Neve grabbed Rook’s wrist. “Look at the cages— Nina was right, they are using blood magic to seal them, but I see red Lyrium too. They might be connected, like the barriers the cult uses.”

“You're right!” Bellara gasped. “I think that’s what we’re all feeling. It’s faint but it’s there, the resonance of the blood magic on those locks is a constant note, not shifting and spiking like a ritual in progress— one that peaks in power before dropping off as the spell is finished. It’s an interconnected ward on the same wavelength. It’s being held in place because it’s grounded to the red Lyrium and—-“

“Bellara, the theory is very interesting but I believe we’r short on time?” Emmrich interpolated carefully, brows creased with his look of concern.

“Right, sorry. Anyways, what I’m saying is there’s probably someone or something holding the resonance in place. The source of the spell. If we destroy that, it should unlock all the cages at once. But the Venatori will notice when we do it. So if we sneak in… it will blow our cover..” Bellara chewed her bottom look, eyes turned towards the cages. Some were clearly filled with Veiljumpers, wearing the telltale orange and purple robes. Others were filled with Slaves, those caught Neve’s eye. Slaves in dingy white cotton clothes, looking exhausted. Many of them slept or spoke among themselves, others held the bars of their cages and watched the Venatori stalking around like cornered wolves. Full of anger and wanting to bite but too surrounded and exhausted to make the attack count enough to be worth the risk.

“Maybe we split up? Moving in smaller groups will help us be stealthier anyway.” Rook grabbed a stick, leaning over and sketching in the dirt. “Bellara and Emmrich, if you destroy the source of the wards on the cage, you can help the slaves escape. Those who are too weak to fight will have the chance to escape. Those that can fight will make sure you aren’t too outnumbered to follow. Neve and I can get to the ritual site and stop the Venatori before they can perform it.”

“Rook, are you sure? Last time we interrupted a large scale ritual…” Neve started to say, trying to joke but there was real concern there.

“I’ll make sure you don’t come away with any more facial scars this time… Besides, no ancient blighted gods to unleash this time.” Rook took a deep breath, slowing their racing heart. “Seriously though, it’ll be okay. We’ve pulled off crazier things, and if it gets too crazy, Emmrich and Bellara won’t be far and can back us up.”

“Alright… what direction are we going in?” Neve looked at Rook’s drawing of circles, triangles, and squares to try and decipher it like it was some kind of ancient puzzle.

“Right. Look here, the triangles are Venatori tents, the squares the cages, and the circles are us. Emmrich, Bellara, head on the west side of camp. There’s a lot of foliage and rocks to give you cover. Neve and I will take the east side— hope you don’t mind getting a little wet, we’ll have to hide along the bank of the river and along the waterfall. It should help though, they won’t expect us to come from that way.”

“Rook, you still can’t swim!” Emmrich exclaimed. “Neve either.”

“We won’t have to, water’s shallow on that side.” Rook grinned like they’d won some kind of argument. Emmrich sighed.

“Alright. Be careful… where shall we rendezvous at the end of all this?” Emmrich stood beside Bellara, who tinkered on her bow— she did that sometimes, something about calibrations.

“We meet back at the owl statue a little ways back, you saw it yeah?” Rook looked back up the path.

“Sounds good. See you on the other side.” Bellara smiled. “Let’s do this thing.”

“Just like not so old times,” Emmrich nodded his head.

The group split up. Room crouched in the underbrush, carefully making their way down the hill with Neve at their back. Emmrich and Bellara hung back for a moment before making their way down. Rook caught glimpses of them as they made their way through the shallow parts of the river to the bank opposite of the Venatori camp. It was out of view but full cover was scarce and they had to move quickly.

“We never get a normal date, do we?” Neve whispered as rook climbed up a rock, and offered a hand to pull up Neve behind them.

“That wouldn’t be nearly as fun.” Rook gave a lopsided grin. Neve laughed but the moment wasn’t long before the two were on the move again. The place was swarming with Venatori and Rook was eager for proper cover. They ducked into the camp proper, squeezing between supply crates just to keep out of sight.

“Just as long as there are no questionably sticky disguises..” Neve whispered.

“Or ancient gods screaming in my head…” Rook responded as they slipped through. Further up the path, still unspotted. Until they came to a juncture where they’d have to cross the path. There was a single Venatori rogue nearby, holding wicked red Lyrium sickles and scowling as they paced back and forth. Being spotted here was unavoidable.. 

“High and low?” Neve gestured with her scepter. 

“Ice the ground and I can grab him quick.” Rook nodded once, easing forward onto the balls of their feet. Then they nodded a second time and Neve moved. She leapt from cover, waving her scepter and covering the ground in an inch of ice so cold the air turned to mist above it. The scout slipped, running in place as they desperately fought for balance on the ice. While they struggled Rook moved, sliding gracefully across, grabbing the Scout’s head between their hand and sending a charge of magic through their skull and neck, powerful force summoned from the fade and concentrated to shatter their skull and neck. The Venatori could barely make a sound of pain before Rook’s magic ended them. They hooked an arm underneath the now limp and dead Venatori, dragging them across the path behind some supply crates. With luck, they wouldn’t be discovered before Neve and Rook finished.

“Nice work.” Neve sauntered across and crouched down again.

“Not so bad yourself.” Rook continued up the path. They were nearly there now, able to climb the scaffolding in the back of the spire to get to the ritual sight. Indoors several Venatori were chanting, a number of slaves being held around a circular pit in chains. Terrible chains, metal red with a mix of blood and rust, the air tangy with the scent of iron. The cuffs on the chains had spikes turned inwards, digging into the wrists and ankles of the slaves and forcing them to bleed out onto the platform. Rook’s stomach twisted and the back of their throat burned a little. Their veins throbbed with the thrum of blood magic as they watched. The pit before the still living slaves might have had white stone once, but it was stained dark with blood and covered in dozens of bodies. Tan, brown, pale, and sun-burnt red skin visible amongst blood spatter and grey-metal chains. Disfigured faces with ears rounded and pointed were clear. 

“Again!” A clear, sharp voice ordered. A hooded Venatori in black and red robes stood above the rest on a wooden platform. He stood above the slaves and his fellow Venatori, holding a staff with a multi-headed snake creature high. Each fanged mouth of the snakes held a different colored crystal, which all glowed and resonated with blood magic. When Rook looked at it too long their vision broke into fractals and blurred duplicates, blood vessels in their ears aching. They decided not to look at it.

“This is sick,” Neve snarled, crouched next to him. “Looks like that’s the man in charge. Killing him outright while he’s in the middle of this will have massive backlash…”

“What do we do? Do we have a choice?” Rook scanned the ritual. After the man barked his order, more robed Venatori slit the throats of the slaves right next to the pit and let them fall, each landing with heavy, meaty thuds. The Venatori didn’t flinch or waver at the pleads or screams of the slaves. They just turned, yanking more chained victims forward. Blood dripped from them onto more spiked chains, a few of them pleaded and struggled but met the painful smack of Venatori staves.

“If we get down there and distract him, break his focus on the ritual, he won’t be focused enough on the power to turn it against us… at least… I think so.” Neve shifted her weight. “We could wait until Emmrich and Bellara are finished?”

“They’re relying on us stopping the ritual, too, because it will take out the Venatori leaders. It will be a hard fight but I think we just have to do it— before those next slaves are sacrificed.” Neve tightened her fist, nearly shaking with anger and disgust. 

“Okay. I’m going in.”

“Wait, rook you shouldn’t just—“ Neve began to say, but it was for naught. Had Rook ended up facing the consequences of being too impulsive time and time again? Yes. They’d been forced to lay low and avoid Minrathous after the Nessus job, but then they’d met Varric. The one time it really went right for them. They’d been impulsive at the ritual site with Solas, and Neve had gotten hurt. They’d rushed to Minrathous to save it from the dragon attack but Treviso had been virtually destroyed. The gods had forced them to rush to Tearstone Island, and Lace Harding had died. So one would think Rook would have learned about rushing ahead, about impulse…

They had not. They slid down to the ritual site and yelled, thrusting their staff forward with a wave of electrical magic that traveled across the pools of blood to shock the Venatori cultists. A few of them dropped, and a few of them were just angry. 

Rook thought that would be enough to distract the leader on the platform. It wasn’t.

“Kill them! And kill those slaves!” He snapped, before raising his staff. Rook let out a shout as a hot wave of blood magic pulsed over the area. Their ears rang and vision blurred with the force of the magic, the slaves screamed and then gurgled as their throats were slit. More meaty thuds and the rattle of chains. The Venatori man laughed cruelly. “Yes! Yes, the power! It surges, it grows! Take them! They will be a sacrifice! They will assist us in our glorious ascension as gods of time itself!” 

Rook was doubled over, hands clutched over their ears and their staff dropped on the ground, forgotten with the pain of blood magic pushing over them. In their mind, hooked into their skin and grinding down their teeth. Rough hands grabbed them and began dragging them towards the pit.

“No! Rook!” Neve broke from cover, scepter glowing bright with nearly untamed magic. A wild blizzard burst forth, chains shattering under the cold, bloody ice crunching underfoot, and then a short scream from the Venatori man. A scream and then the world shattered. It burst into a thousand shifting fragments, echoing off eachother, distorting and pulling apart and rebuilding and pulling apart, again, again, again, spirals and fractals, the resonating song of the fade shattered and spinning, discordant harmonies playing over each other forwards and backwards, an echo of reality but much easier to push in one direction or another, warped mirror broken. How many years of bad luck were just unleashed in a single moment?

Rook screamed. Because all of the tearing and shattering and pulling from the explosion of magic as the crystals in the magister’s staff shattered and broke was happening to them. Their being being picked apart, every bit of flesh torn from itself. Skin pulling from muscle, muscle from fat, fat and muscle from bone, bone cracking open to reveal marrow, before all of it was pulled together again in a jumble at least roughly the same as before. Blood pooled from all the places where things hadn’t quite connected right, running along the seams of Rook’s being. The resonance of blood magic sharp like a knife, an imprint plucking at the fade like a tailor’s tool, or scissors cutting through a knit scarf. 

The world caved in on itself and then expanded like hands bouncing back off the taut surface of a hide-drum. 

Then the world was cold. Made of ice and frost and hard rock, Rook was cast out. The only warmth was blood, and they tried to cling to this as consciousness slipped between their fingers.

***

“Rook! Rook!!” Neve slid down to the ritual site. Flakes of ice floated through the air, drifting down to the floor coated in ice and blood. The room was full of cages, with now shivering slaves in wicked chains that were half frozen, not shattered the same way the ones closest to the ritual circle were. A number of the venatori had been turned to ice statues. Neve pushed past them, spinning around. “Rook..?” They were nowhere to be seen. The spot they’d been in had a small splatter of fresh blood, being iced over slowly, and their staff was left behind but… The rest of them, nowhere. The venatori magister was gone too, and Neve wasn’t sure if they had been obliterated by her wild spell or not.
“No… No, no,” Neve rushed to Rook’s abandoned staff, picking it up. “You can’t… No!” Her voice broke, magic pulsing a little through the heavy staff and sending snowflakes bursting from the tip. She clutched it close, sliding to the ground and crying softly. Rook was gone, the Magister was gone, there was no one to turn to or blame for this but herself. No body, no trace. She wasn’t sure how long she was crying, could’ve been minutes, could have been longer. More venatori showed up, though, shouting and tripping over one-another.

“Fall back! Fall back! The slaves are revolting, there’s too many of them!” One of them yelled as they burst through the door. “What!? Neve Ga—” The venatori began to say, before a blast of necrotic magic warped through them, skin shriveling and flesh rotting off and falling from bone as they collapsed, dead. A fade bolt followed and struck the venatori nearby. Emmrich and Bellara followed after the now dead venatori, looking around.

“Rook! Neve! The freed slaves were able to help us defeat the venatori, but we saw an explosion from here, are you— Neve..?” Emmrich stopped, taking in the scene. Neve, hunched over, wilted and clutching onto Rook’s staff, the room covered in blood and ice and remains. The slaves in their cages had started pulling on their chains and the doors, begging for release. Bellara rushed over, starting to pick the locks. These were different, not combined with all the others in the same blood magic spell— Likely the venatori didn’t want it to interfere with their own spell. “Where’s Rook..?”

“They’re… they’re gone,” Neve whispered. Bellara helped the slaves— former slaves, now, out of their cages. “I… it’s my fault…”

“They just rushed in out of nowhere,” one of the freed elves spoke, letting Bellara unlock her chains. “They were pushed down by blood magic and then she cast some spell, it went wild and the magister…” She looked to the platform, hugging her arms over herself to cover her body as she took in the scene, all of the dead frozen over. 

“All that’s left is.. Is…” Neve looked at the staff in her hands.

“The magister and some of the venatori disappeared the same way. Not even a trace left,” The elven woman added. “I’m… so so sorry…” 

Emmrich looked at Rook’s staff, mouth agape, utterly gobsmacked. “Not even… How can it be..?”

“No..” Bellara’s eyes were full of tears. She went over to the edge of the pit, looking into it. Then moving back, a hand over her mouth and the blood draining from her face. She looked like she was going to be ill. She stood there for a moment, eyes squeezed shut and tears rolling down her cheeks. Emmrich lifted an arm to catch his own with a handkerchief. 

“Andraste’s Mercy…” Emmrich sniffled. “But it doesn’t seem… Not a trace? Not a scorch mark or a… And the fade, it feels so weak here. Maybe the blood magic but maybe…” Emmrich watched the air. Watched the snow flakes floating in it. Watched them float gently– upwards. But there was no draft, wind to push them that way, they just drifted back to their point of origin and… disappeared. “No!” Emmrich gasped, moving forward. “They aren’t gone! By the maker, the Venatori did it! They completed time travel!”

“What!?” Neve’s head snapped up, taking in Emmrich’s now horrified expression. “What do you mean?” 

“Look at the snowflakes! The blood droplets! They’re not moving right, and the fade ripples feel backwards! It left an echo on this place, you interrupted the ritual but some part of the spell was completed, and Rook and the Venatori– I think they were sent back! When or where we can’t be sure, I mean with the position of Thedas over time and… Oh, I would need to do so many calculations and studies to be sure, but I don’t think Rook is dead! And I won’t believe it until I see a body.”

“Emmrich..” Neve stood slowly, swaying a bit weakly. “I really hope you’re not wrong.” 

“For now… Either way, we should get all these people to safety with the veiljumpers..” Bellara was helping an old man stand up, lifting a blanket over his shoulders. “I hope you’re right too, Emmrich.”

Emmrich nodded, taking a deep breath. “I’ll speak with the Mournwatchers and whoever else I can to figure this out… But something sincerely magically unique happened here. If Rook is alive, they’ve traveled through time. The power needed to perform the spell again and get them back… it might require an anomaly similar to what happened here, and… replicating it without blood magic… I don’t know.” 

“Maybe the veiljumpers have an artifact that can help us.” Bellara started walking out, slinging her bow across her back. 

“We need to tell… tell the others,” Neve murmured. “That Rook is…”

“We will. Neve, take it easy.” Emmrich went and helped support her, seeing how weak she was just trying to stand let alone walk. 

“Rook is known for doing the impossible. They escaped the Fade prison, they gathered everyone to defeat gods. They’ll come back. I just… I just know it, Neve,” Bellara kept her voice strong, confident. Hopefully convincing enough for everyone, including herself. It was a matter of time until they would find out the truth, she hoped.

Chapter Text

Cold and hard were the first sensations Rook became aware of as they began to wake. The ground they were laying on was hard, small rocks digging into their skin. Then, the cold, biting and sharp, ice crystals and snow pressing into their fingertips and numbing the edges of their long, pointed ears. Rook’s hair was short, shaved down on most of their head so it wouldn’t get in the way during a battle. So their head was freezing, and the shivering began as soon as they had registered the pressing cold all over their body. They were also in pain. Like they’d been batted around between a dragon's claws, or just had a bad wrestling match with Taash as the case may be. 

The world spun when Rook sat up, but their vision was focusing. Had been, but incredible vertigo set in as soon as they looked up and saw sky. It was split, shattered and swirling with violent clouds and crackling green energy. The Fade. The veil was flayed open, ripped-up and hanging open like a dislocated jaw, a breach formed from a blunt attack on the veil. Rook could feel it crackling over their skin, in the air they took into their lungs and sharp at their fingertips, their magic feeling stronger, rawer, like the moments just after Solas’s ritual had gone wild or when handling artifacts with Bellara and the veiljumpers. Rook couldn’t take their eyes off it, a glowing beacon high in the sky, set like a crown-jewel above the crests and razor-edges of mountains, titan’s teeth and spines breaking up from the earth. Why was it here? They remembered the wave of paralyzing blood magic, then cold, then… Where were they?

Rook managed to get to their feet, but still couldn’t take their eyes off the massive hole in the fade. Shouldn’t… Solas wouldn’t allow that. His movement through the fade was a mystery to Rook but if it was tied to his lifeforce, tied to his magic, surely it would be something he noticed..? 

Rook groaned, reaching up and running their cold-numbed fingers over their hair. The mountains didn’t look familiar, and winter didn’t come to Arlathan like this, so where were they? Or… Rook’s stomach dropped like a stone, because possibly the question they should be asking was when were they. Rook started looking around frantically. They were on the bank of a river of some kind, below a crumbling stone ruin, and among dozens of now burning and destroyed tents, some already half-buried under fresh snow. 

“Kaffas…” Rook mumbled. They took a stilted step forward, sinking into the snow and stumbling. “Kaffas!” Rook repeated, hissing. Their boots were leather but certainly not built for snow. They took several more steps, finding a place where the snow was packed in enough that they didn’t sink. They looked over themself, assessing for injuries. Scrapes, bruises, but no deep wounds. A good sign, they hoped. Now with that settled, they looked to see what belongings they had. Their mage-knife hummed at their side with power, enchantments still holding, stronger maybe with the fade torn as it was. They could feel the power of their orb, as well, ready to be summoned at will, maybe wanting that, magic strong and ready. 

Their staff was gone. They remembered dropping it… it was probably left behind, wherever they were before, with— Neve. Oh, Neve… She would have no idea where Rook had gone. Rook had no idea where they had gone. The Fade was cracked open like a nut, it was cold and they didn’t have their staff or many other supplies— they had a couple potions in their satchel, and some other things, but not much. They didn’t take many things with them into the Venatori camp, not wanting to lose them…

It probably wasn’t safe either– Something had…Something had destroyed the camp they stood in. Was it still there..? Rook took a few steps, head turning as they tried to assess their surroundings, drawing a knife. 

Their preparation came in handy, as a green sort of meteorite suddenly hurtled from the sky as the hole in it warped and burst, sending a shockwave twisting through the clouds and the fog. Rook stumbled, ears ringing from the explosion as something crashed into the earth in front of them. Something snarling and angry rose up from the small crater in the snow. A creature made of twisting vines and green magic stood on gangly limbs, lashing a tail of thorns— some kind of fucked up demon. Great. Just what Rook needed. 

“Alright, you,” Rook looked at it. It had a twisted face, and it screeched at him and lurched forward. “Give it your best shot.” 

They held their dagger at the ready, the lyrium gem at their side flying up and forming its usual icy shell when they summoned their orb. Magic crackled through it and through their dagger as they leapt towards the demon, then back, bating it forward. It was tall, limber, but seemed disproportional and they hoped it meant it was clumsy. Its attempt to strike Rook missed and when it was winding up again Rook struck forward and sent a spell coursing through the metal of their dagger, lighting up the demon with twisting spires of ice. The demon shattered, collapsing onto the ground in chunky pieces of wood and limbs.

“Well… Not nearly as hard as I thought, but it was just one demon…” Rook walked in a slow circle. Then froze. “I really need to shut up.”

“You there! Who are you, what are you doing?” A southern templar stood there, flanked by several others and holding a blade at the ready. They had the tell-tale signs of being templars, lyrium filters hanging off their belts, sword insignia on their chests… This was… not good. Rook sheathed their blade, holding up their hands. 

“You can call me Rook,” They said. “I mean no harm, I was— I was just passing through, is all. I was attacked by a demon. I’m not a threat to you.”

“You’re a mage! Your people did this– the— the thing in the sky ! You blew up the conclave!” 

“The–” Rook turned their gaze up to the sky again. “The conclave.”

“Yeah, knife-ear! We’re going to put you down, and all— all mages!” The templar snarled. Rook didn’t look away, staring at the breach. At the ruin below on the mountains. 

“Maker…” Rook murmured, breathing slow, air coming out in soft white puffs that nearly obscured their vision. 

“Get him!” The templar called. Rook heard the rattle of armor and their gaze snapped back to the templars.

“No! No, hold on!” Rook held up their hands. “I didn’t do this, I didn’t have anything to do with this!”

“Shut up, apostate,” one of the other templars snarled, only a couple feet away. They reached to grab Rook’s shoulder and they moved back.

“You do not want to do that,” Rook hissed. “We can work this out.” 

They couldn’t. Rook had heard stories of the monstrous templars of the south. They had fought undead mage-murderers in Rivain, calming the spirits there after the atrocities committed. They knew they were going to have to defend themself. The templar went to grab them again, sword ready, and Rook summoned magical power to their hands, electricity calling through them to electrocute the templar trying to grab them. 

It sputtered out. Silence roared through their ears, suffocating, oppressive. The raw energy of the fade coursing through their veins, snuffed out like a candle between fingertips. The templar’s eyes glowed and a terrible grin crossed his face. Rook nearly collapsed from the force of it. 

“Vishante kaffas–” Rook strained out. The completely wrong thing to say. An elven mage? Terrible thing to be around human templars. A mage from Tevinter? An even worse thing to be around a templar. 

“Blood mage!” One of the further templars shouted.

“Now that is a stereotype!” Rook groaned, stumbling back and drawing their blade. The nearest templar seemed rather shocked by this– A mage with anything but a small knife was a shock. It was doing nothing good for the templars thinking they were a blood mage, but it was a means to protect themself. Rook lunged forward, slashing at the weak points in the templar’s armor. Their father had taught them to work a blade from a young age, to protect themself on Minrathous’s streets or from racist mages at the circle they trained their magic at. And, in the event they were in the south and found themself at the hands of southern templars… 

They knew there were weak points between all that plate armor. They stabbed and slashed quickly, some chunks of armor falling away, and the templar yelling as they were wounded. The silence, the suffocation that muffled everything around it, shutting off the sixth sense of their magic, a temporary kind of tranquility– It lifted, just for a moment, and in that moment Rook gathered their power and let out a shockwave of magic. It blew them back into the snow, but it also knocked the templars to the ground, their muscles spasming as electricity moved through their metal armor. Rook groaned, sitting up slowly. They needed to get up, get to safety somewhere and reassess. They had been sent back  in time, clearly. 9:41 Dragon, the year the sky fell and the inquisition rose in southern Thedas. Why Rook was in Ferelden and not in Tevinter during that time, Rook wasn’t sure. They didn’t have a lot of time to think too deeply about it. There were two more templars approaching. 

“Maker damn it all,” Rook spat, standing up and calling their orb. “I don’t want to fight you! I don’t know who blew up the conclave! Just– Back off!” Rook panted a little. The two new strangers looked… Perplexed. 

“Who are you? What happened here?” The one on the left, a woman, spoke. Her voice was thick, a nevarran accent. She had dark hair, with a braid wrapped in a crown around her head. Her armor was different, more personal, a patchwork coat made of thick leather to protect her from the cold. She didn’t look exactly like a templar, she had different armor and the symbol on her chest was the eye of the maker, not the sword of mercy.. The man next to her was blond, wearing a fur coat but still having a templar insignia on his chestplate. He had dark circles under his eyes and messy stubble on his scarred chin. 

“I’d ask the same of you…” Rook kept their blade up, orb floating in a circle around them. The blond templar’s eyes followed the orb, something in his face shifting from being inquisitive to confused. Rook sent the orb back to their belt. The man’s eyebrows twitched and he looked more confused. Rook couldn’t help but feel a bit satisfied about that reaction. 

“You’re a mage. What magic was that? And what magic did you use on these templars?” She stepped over one. Not a templar? What then? Someone who scavenged the armor?

“They attacked me first,” Rook knew that didn’t answer her question, but it felt better to clarify that. “Called me a knife-ear, accused me of blood magic, probably the usual bit…”

“Did you perform blood magic?” The woman looked them up and down. They realized that they had blood on them— Not their own.

“No. And I’m strictly against that.” They shuffled back a step as the woman drew closer.

“Then I’ll ask again, who are you?” She looked at them down her nose, grey eyes sharp, hand resting on the hilt of the sword at her side.

“My name is Rook.” No first name, no last name. No past, because it was the future, and because they didn’t know how to reconcile all of it with themself just yet. Rook had been more of a name to them in recent years than any name before that, most people jumping to that before anything else. Even Neve… oh, Neve… “I’m a mage, as you can see. I was attacked by a demon– I killed it. Then the templars. They aren’t dead. I think. Maybe that spell had more kick than I meant to… with the fade being all…” Rook’s gaze flicked up to the breach in the sky. “Fucked up.” 

“I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast.” Shit . Rook’s heart was swiftly trying to make its way out of their body through their ass. “My companion is Knight Commander–”

“I have given up that title,” The man interrupted, a bit meekly. 

Cassandra sighed. “This is Ser Cullen Rutherford, former templar of the Chantry. We were searching for survivors in the aftermath of the conclave.”

“Well.. I am still alive.” Rook looked around. A lot of others weren’t. “I’d be happy to help in any way I can. I’m only mildly injured, and though my staff is gone, I can still do some healing magic and if demons need to be fought, I can do it.” Cassandra narrowed her eyes, but sighed. 

“We have to take all the help we can get. Come with us, we’re on our way to Haven, a village in the mountains. There will be more survivors there who could benefit from your healing skill, if that is true.”

“It very much is. I also need.. Probably some better clothes for this weather.” Rook looked down at their leather outfit. 

“That insignia..” Cullen studied them closely. “No southern circle bears that mark.” 

The snakes on their outfit, meant to represent Tevinter and the Shadow Dragons. Shit . Should have seen that one coming.

“I am not from the south, it’s true.” 

“Why are you here?” The man’s hand twitched towards his sword. 

Rook threw up their hands. “The conclave is important for mages everywhere!” They needed to lie, and fast. “The circles in Tevinter train us in magic, yes, but they don’t control blood magic and they’re full of stupid altus bastards who treat laetan human mages like the dirt under their boot, and elven mages like sewage. When word of the rebellion and then the conclave went north, I decided to see what would come of it. If mages were free in the south, elven and lower born mages like myself could leave Tevinter behind safely.” 

Cullen’s gaze scrutinized them for a moment. Then his hand returned to his side. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

“Good advice for any stranger, really.” Rook covered their sigh of absolute belief, but cursed themself because now they would have to keep up that lie. Cassandra grunted simply, starting down the path. Rook fell into step. Their skin crawled as Cullen walked beside them, but they said nothing. Sent back in time, now acquainted with key members of the inquisition… What did all this mean? How did their very presence not break reality as they knew it? They would have to study this as soon as they could, as soon as it was safe. There would be more demons to fight for now. They might die from altering the past too much, or from the demons right in front of them. 

“Did you come alone?” Cassandra asked. “It is quite a long way to go from Tevinter.” 

“I had to see.” Rook shrugged simply. “I.. Think I came alone. When that thing opened up, I took a bad blow to the head. I’m still a little scrambled up.. Especially with those templars, with.. The.. the thing they do.” Rook swallowed, stumbling a little, having to stop and think about it. About being cut off from their magic so suddenly, so thoroughly. Suffocating. 

“A templar’s silence,” Cullen said. “They caught you by surprise, and you’ve probably never experienced it before… I am sorry.” 

“I’ll be fine.” They were a bit nauseous, actually, but they couldn’t be sure if that was the reality of the situation beginning to set in, or a side effect from the silencing. 

“You should take it easy. You clearly have other injuries.” Cassandra’s voice was still harsh but she was being nice. At least, Rook thought she was being nice. They decided it was so as they continued to follow, crossing a stone bridge. There were people rushing back and forth, a blockade being built. Bodies lined the side of the bridge, wrapped in thick white linen, barely out of the way. Rook stared for a moment at some of them. Emmrich would be so offended to see this treatment of the dead. At the battle of Minrathous, recovered bodies had been better protected, and at least elevated off of the ground— This wasn’t Minrathous. Emmrich wasn’t here, he was probably in Nevarra. Fourteen years younger– He was a bit of a silver fox in Rook’s time, they wondered briefly what he looked like younger. The thought didn’t linger long as they continued, and a town came into view. Built on a slope, they could vaguely see a chantry above all of the simple wooden houses barely peeking above the height of the brick walls. A quaint village, and full of dozens of people, a tent city had begun to form around the outskirts of the village, probably dwarfing the original population of the town.
“I am going to the chantry. Leliana said they recovered a mysterious prisoner, and that I should take a look… Cullen, can you take Rook to Apothecary Adan? Then gather any soldiers and loyal templars you can to help find more survivors and kill any demons nearby. 

“Right away.” Cullen stopped, letting Cassandra continue on towards town, and looking at Rook. 

Rook shifted a little where they stood, looking at him. “Lead the way, then?”

Cullen nodded, starting towards Haven. He glanced at Rook every so often. He was suspicious. Rook supposed they couldn’t blame him, he was right that there was something weird going on…

“Were there any survivors, up at the temple..?” Rook asked, tentatively. They knew there were none. Well, one, but they had a feeling that the “mysterious prisoner” Cassandra mentioned was Inquisitor Lavellan. 

“No. Everyone in the temple was killed when the breach opened up.” Cullen glanced over his shoulder at it, then away, his face a little paler than before he’d looked. “The divine, all the mages and templars inside… Gone in a second.”

Rook felt sick to their stomach. They’d heard about it when they were young, of course. It was a terrible thing, but the reality of it hadn’t dawned on them completely. But.. The idea of it. That Solas had gotten his orb to Corypheus— a blighted magister— in an effort to unlock his orb, his power… Willing to kill so many in the process… Rook grit their teeth, jaw tight. 

“They don’t know what did this?” Rook followed Cullen up the steps into Haven, past rushing soldiers and scouts, terrified survivors here and there, to a smattering of tents and buildings with a robed man outside. Not a mage, as he had bottles tied to his belt, bandages in his hand, cots of injured all around him. Some chantry sisters rushed about, frantically tending to injuries of various severity. 

“Maker…” Rook breathed, seeing all this.. The sick feeling in their stomach deepened. They stood next to a cot, a young woman groaned and writhed on her side, clutching her bleeding head. She looked like she had been hit hard by some kind of rubble. Rook didn’t hesitate, crouching down and raising their hands. Healing magic pulsed through them, stronger than intended— the raw fade was still open, even farther from the breach their magic was so much easier to reach for. The healing came out stronger, the woman’s wounds closing up, bone mending back together. Rook realized this woman could be dead, in their time. If there weren’t other mages around to heal her, just an apothecary and chantry sisters— Could this break time? It was too late now, what were they going to do? Rebash in the woman’s head?

“Thank you..” The woman murmured, her eyes were far away, still out of it with the remnants of a concussion, but not on her way to the maker’s side anymore.

“Hey! Hey what are you– Oh,” A bearded man came over, his tone harsh, but he softened as he took in what was really happening. “You healed her. You’re a mage.”

“This is Rook,” Cullen introduced. “Cassandra had me take him here to get his own injuries treated but uh.. Well, he is a mage.”

“Um,” Rook stood awkwardly, brushing off their hands like pushing away extra magical charge. “Them. I use they and them, please.” 

“Oh? Uh, sorry?” Cullen looked confused, but just kind of shrugged. “Alright. They..? They seem to have healing magic, so maybe they can help you. I’m going to take some soldiers into the valley… Will probably send some back with any injured we find whenever it’s possible.”

“Work keeps piling up, doesn’t it?” The man sighed. “I’m Adan. Good to meet you. You’re a healer? Let’s get to work.”

“Yes sir.” Rook stood properly, glancing at Cullen. “Be safe out there.”

Cullen looked surprised, but nodded. “You too.” He turned, heading down the path and calling for some of the passing soldiers to join him. 

Rook turned to the injured, powering up a spell carefully. Not having a staff to focus it usually meant spells took more effort, and focus. Healing was precise when they got down to it, but having a moment to sit and focus on it was… Nice. Better than healing a wound shut in the middle of running from a crazed, blighted god. The breach didn’t seem to be changing all that much in the meantime. Rook continued healing the injuries that they could. They would find out what to do when the world wasn’t falling apart around them. 

***

The snow crunched underfoot as Rook walked away from all the healer’s tents. Most of the patients were stable for now, and Rook’s mana reserves needed time to recover. Adan had assured them that non-magic medicine would suffice for now, and they should take care of themself for the moment. There weren’t likely to be many lyrium potions in town, so they had to recover many naturally. They had managed to get ahold of warmer clothes– and clothes more fitting with the south, and with the time period. They would stick out like a sore thumb enough already, so they didn’t want to make it worse. They were wandering towards the chantry when Haven shook from another pulse from the breach. It had been growing incrementally for the past day or so. Cullen and Cassandra had been going back and forth between haven and the demon-infested paths outside of Haven. Rook had been keeping an eye on it. 

They stopped short of the path when they saw Cassandra approaching. They were going to ask her about the mysterious prisoner— Adan had gone down to the Chantry dungeon where they were keeping him several times already. Rook was admittedly curious to see what the Inquisitor had been like in the past… After a day passed and reality only collapsed around them the normal amount, Rook was a little less weary about their presence being the straw that broke the camel’s back. 

Cassandra was marching up the path, but Rook didn’t approach. Not when a familiar figure followed behind.  The feeling that overtook Rook was different from the fear that Cassandra had instilled. She was a good woman, if scary. The elf followed her though.. Wearing muted green robes, hood pulled over his head but ears sticking out from slits in the side and a necklace with a black wolf’s jaw bone hanging down and knocking occasionally against his front. Solas. Rook’s stomach twisted up into a knot, a pit of dread opening up. Fitting, they supposed. It had taken so much fighting to get to Solas at the ritual site, so much fighting to defeat the blighted elven gods— not dead by this time. Solas had taken so much convincing to change his mind, and this was before he garnered any kind of friendship with anyone from the inquisition. Maker, what if Rook destroyed the small chance they had to stop Solas? To convince him, finally, that he was wrong. 

Cassandra and Solas had nearly passed by, Solas sparing just a brief glance in Rook’s direction. It nearly convinced them to turn tail, run back to Adan and learn more practical medicine… But they couldn’t. Something in them just itched, clawed in their stomach. 

“Seeker Cassandra?” Rook stepped out. “What’s the word?”

Cassandra looked over, looking Rook up and down, a little surprised. Solas stopped beside her, leaning on an old wooden staff. He was trying to seem simple, unassuming. A normal, elven apostate who was offering his magical expertise. Rook resisted the urge to scowl in his direction.

“The breach continues to grow. We have more injured coming in, why aren’t you with Adan?” She asked, holding up a hand to tell Solas to wait. 

“Needed a breather, time to regain some Mana because there aren’t many lyrium potions around… Are there injured inside the chantry? I heard… Rumors about a prisoner. I could help, I have a bit of esoteric magical expertise myself…” Rook looked towards the chantry. 

“Esoteric magical expertise?” Solas spoke, echoing softly. It was strange to hear his voice. So… calm, normal? It was hard to place it, but he wasn’t making speeches or grand-standing, didn’t have the echo from the regret prison, words riding on a blood magic connection. 

“I heard the prisoner fell out of the fade. I’ve done a bit of studying on the fade.” Rook suddenly felt… horribly hyper aware of the dagger on their hip, disguised as a mere magical trinket. Solas’s dagger, which could cut into the fade like the veil was nothing. Maybe they could use it..? Get to a rift, use the dagger to get into the fade and reverse the spell that had sent them back in time? It was worth a shot, but they needed a reason to get close to a rift.

“You heard right,” Cassandra sighed. “The prisoner fell from the fade, and possesses a strange mark. This is Solas, he claims to be an expert on the fade and the veil and that he can help calm the mark and wake the prisoner for questioning.”

Expert was an understatement. Rook did their best to keep from reacting too much.

“I am indeed an expert in those matters. However, if the prisoner is injured, then having someone aid me in healing those injuries would be good. I could reserve my mana to matters related to the veil instead.”

Rook knew Solas had awoken from his sleep weak, killing Mythal later to regain his power… Made sense he was trying to reserve as much power as he could. 

“I’ll do what I can.” Rook nodded.

“There are lyrium potions in the chantry. Come on, if you wish.” Cassandra sighed, leading the both of them. Rook decided to be a step behind Solas, not trusting him completely at their back. They were trying not to raise alarm bells, but their heart raced a little. 

“What was your name again?” Solas inquired as they descended into the dungeon. A chantry with a dungeon, it seemed so strange, preposterous really… 

“Rook,” They answered, voice bouncing off of stone walls. They came to a room full of cells, a bedroll laid out. Lavellan was on it, thrashing a bit, mumbling. The mark crackled, the cell lighting up green and another surge of magical energy filling the air. Lavellan’s pained noise echoed louder and Rook winced. Some bandages were visible on him, but no healing magic had been used. “I’ll start on their injuries… It will be a delicate process, the magical energy here it’s…”

“It’s raw, unstable.” Solas went over, stepping into the cell after Cassandra opened it. She watched closely. It made Rook’s skin crawl. An unpredictable elven god who could probably still kill them even in a weakened state, and a legendary seeker who could kill him without magic at all. Terrifying circumstances, really. “Every spell comes with far more power than predictable in these conditions, the fade is exposed, easier to draw upon. It can be helpful but it can lead to unexpected results, as well.”

“The breach in the sky is getting worse, too..” Rook hovered their hands over Lavellan. He was an elven mage, Rook knew. What had the anchor done to his magic when he still had it..? Had his magic been weaker after it was gone? Rook was admittedly curious. Maybe they would get to see, or if they got back to their own time, maybe Rook could ask the inquisitor. They began to heal the injuries that their magic found, sealing wounds carefully. No broken bones, that was good. Those always got… tricky. The mark sparked again, Lavellan thrashing, crying out.

“Ah! No! No..” Lavellan quieted, gasping for breath. “The grey… need to.. Warn..”

“Bad dreams..” Rook mumbled. “Rest…” 

Solas crouched by Lavellan, hands and eyes beginning to glow with strange magic. Rook felt the lyrium dagger stir, but covered it with their cloak. Didn’t need Solas spotting that one… Lavellan tried to thrash again, but Rook went and put a hand on his shoulder. Lavellan had vallaslin on their face, less faded than when Rook had met them. Twisting designs across their cheeks and forehead. The vallaslin represented Sylaise, Lavellan remembered. The hearthkeeper in Dalish stories… Lavellan had mentioned it to Rook, one of the times that they had met in the Cobbled Swan. Lavellan kept stirring, seeming.. So scared, vulnerable. 

“Shh..” Rook shifted carefully to sit. They murmured carefully, voice catching a tune. Singing in front of others was… embarrassing, but Lavellan needed something to calm him down. “ Ellgara vallas, da’len//Maleva somniar//Mala taren aravas//Ara ma’desen melar… ” Rook sang gently, and it seemed to work, Lavellan going more still. It allowed Solas to take their hand, hovering with his magic. The mark didn’t shrink, but when energy crackled it seemed weaker, and less painful to Lavellan.

“It’s working, the song— Are you Dalish?” Solas tilted his head. 

“No,” Rook answered simply, and then kept singing to keep Lavellan calm. “ Iras ma ghilas, da’len//Ara ma’neden ashir//Dirthara lothlenan’as//Bal emma mala dir… ” Bellara had taught them the song, among others that came from the Dalish. They had also spent time with Lorelei, learning a song in elven that had been sung around the Alienage. “ Tal’enfenim, da’len//Irassal ma ghilas//Ma garas mir renan//Ara ma’lathlan vhenas… ” Rook trailed off. The line was supposed to repeat. Their eyes stung, though, when they thought of the meaning. What if they couldn’t get home? Back to their time? Would Neve think them dead? Or would they find her again, but be much older than when they disappeared? And everything would just be… different. It would be different. They felt eyes on them, realising they had stopped singing but still hummed a tune. They let it stop, leaning back, blinking tears away. Lavellan was calm, deeply unconscious for now. Solas pulled away. 

“He will sleep for some time…” Solas looked at Rook. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine. Just the world coming down all around me, is all.” Rook took a breath, looking up. Solas’s eyes were a bit glassy for a moment. Rook didn’t know what to make of that. They remembered him crying, released from Mythal’s service. Shattered, the reality of all the time that had passed while he slept, all the change and destruction… 3000 years or more, asleep. Thousands before that fighting— His entire existence, fighting. But he had to have had moments of wonder, and happiness, as a spirit and as a man. 

“And the thing that would make him cry is a single wilted flower ”. They knew the line had sounded strange from Varric, but hadn’t questioned it much at the time. Knowing now it had been Solas… 

Rook looked down at Lavellan. Solas missed his people, missed speaking elven, probably. All the words of the song probably sounded so simple to him, where Rook had to think so hard about what they meant. 

“My friend taught me the song…” Rook stood carefully. “I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.” Bellara would be going crazy right about now, having gone through impossible magic, seeing a whole new part of the world. 

Solas gave Rook an appraising look. “I am sorry.”

“...Thank you,” Rook responded. “Anyway… His injuries weren’t severe, they’re all healed now. Except that mark, no idea what to make of that one. It’s.. not really a wound? Someone will have to get him water and things while he’s unconscious, that’s.. Outside of my realm or expertise.” 

“The Veil is a wound inflicted upon this world, Varric, it must be healed.” Solas’s voice echoed from Rook’s memories so strongly they worried somehow it would manifest. 

“What do you make of it? The mark,” Solas asked, stepping outside the cell with Rook. Cassandra watched the two of them, arms crossed.

“You said you had esoteric knowledge,” She pointed out.

“Right, and I wasn’t lying. The mark does seem tied to the breach. It grows and the i- prisoner reacts every time the breach grows, even while inside. As a Mage I can sort of feel it, sense it… Like, raw magic coming in. pouring boiling water into cold and watching it steam, that make sense? Anyways, the mark is linked, they’re on the same wavelength, tugging on one another like a dwarven fingertrap. The breach and the mark are on either side, and the space between is… Hm, well the material is the veil. So I guess the space between is magic and reality. It isn’t a perfect analogy but what I’m saying is, the mark will do as the breach does, and vice versa, I think?”

“A rather apt assessment. I believe the mark could be used to repair the damage to the veil, including the rifts and then the breach itself… We will have to test this, however.” Solas looked towards Lavellan as we spoke. “The prisoner is, quite possibly, our only hope.”

“If he wakes up.” Cassandra grit her teeth, scowling deeply. 

“Yes. If he wakes up. I can tend to the mark, likely you will need to get someone else to tend to his other needs.”

“I can fetch Adan.” Rook volunteered. “Until then, I think I might go into the field and help with the fight.” Rook wanted to have a look at a rift or two, test some theories of their own. They also needed to get away from Solas soon or they felt they would lose it. 

“Do as you wish.” Cassandra sighed. “Perhaps you can find someone for me? He went into the field as well, but comes back every so often. Varric Tethras, I am trying to keep an eye on him since he traveled her with myself, Cullen, and Sister Leliana.”

Rook’s stomach did a flip. Varric. Varric . Rook had no idea what expression they made but they knew they spent too long a moment being silent as they absorbed that. Varric was alive, he hadn’t died yet. He was still alive. Rook could see Varric again, for real this time . Not a blood magic manipulation, unless this entire time travel situation was actually a blood magic manipulation by the venatori.

“Of course– I– I can do that.” Rook nodded. “I’ll send Adan down and get into the field.”

“Maker be with you.” Cassandra wished them luck, and they left the dungeon. They could see Varric again. The thought was on repeat in their mind. The situation was bad, terrible even, but… Seeing Varric again? It might be worth it for that.

Chapter Text

The valley was fucked up, full of demons, and cold as balls. Rook was not a very big fan of this at all. They trudged through the snow, using their new staff to help stay upright as they moved along the bank of the river. It cut through the mountains and was close enough to the main road that it wasn’t suspicious that they were moving that way. They needed to get to a rift. They wanted to test out the dagger before finding Varric again. Rook wanted to see him again. Wanted so badly to see him, but had a sickening feeling that they weren’t going to be able to contain themself very well when they died. So maybe they could avoid it. They kept trudging through the snow, feeling with magical pulses for weak spots in the veil. Tears, even. It was… actually harder than they thought. Like everything was all jumbled up, all the rifts making interference where it was hard to be precise about where the veil was weak because really it was all so weak. 

Rook was in luck, however, because over the next hill there was a bright green glow and the crackle of wild magic. Demons pulled through howled and made their guttural sounds, enraged by reality, not bending to their every whim in the same  way that the Fade did. Rook finished climbing the hill, and saw a group of people fighting. A soldier went down, screaming as a terror demon slashed and hacked him to death. A gruesome sight, and Rook cringed. 

Then realized, maybe they weren’t in luck. There was a whirring, clicking, twisting sound, then a steady clank as crossbow bolt after crossbow bolt was fired. Varric Tethras, fighting alongside soldiers who would go on later to join the inquisition, shooting down a shade and then a wraith in rapid succession. Varric was so focused on the fight in front, he didn’t see the wraith floating up behind him soundlessly and summoning magical energy. 

“No!” Rook gasped, sliding down the hill and summoning magical energy at the top of their staff. “Behind you!” They sent forth a dark ball of ice-cold magical energy, sucking all energy and warmth from the air and blending it together in a tight sphere that burst on contact with the wraith. It wasn’t solid in the same way as a shade or terror demon, comprised of strange fade materials and magic energy, but the attack had been magical. The wraith was frozen solid and burst into snowflakes and nothing just as Varric turned. Rook stood some feet away, breathing hard from the amount of energy they had just expended to cast the spell. 

“Andraste’s ass, warn a guy before you use a spell like that?” Varric laughed a bit, holding up his crossbow. Rook realized that all the other demons in the radius of the spell had been frozen solid as well. Varric had a thick layer of frost on his coat, which he started dusting off. 

Rook meant to speak, but their mouth just kind of hung open for a moment. Varric looked at them, raising an eyebrow. He was so much younger, his hair more red and not streaked with grey, his beard trimmed short.
“Well, you’re welcome for the assist and all,” Rook shrugged, wiping the shocked look away and twirling their staff before putting it away on their back. 

“It is appreciated, of course,” Varric smiled. “That hole in the sky has been shitting out demons for days now, there’s really no end to them. Not to mention these things.” He gestured behind himself at the now calmed Fade rift. Varric sighed, collapsing Bianca and putting her on his back. “Varric Tethras, at your service. Renowned Author, and right now, demon fighter.”

“You can call me Rook.” Varric gave a look at that. Rook didn’t want to explain, and didn’t offer any up before continuing. “Seeker Cassandra sent me to find you, actually.Wants to keep an eye on you.”

“Oh how kind of the Seeker,” Varric laughed. “The seeker dragged me down here from Kirkwall to question me about an associate of mine… What about you? What brings you to the ass-end of the known world?”

“The conclave, unfortunately.” The lie was easy enough now, after answering the question at least a few times. “Now I’ve been helping where I can…” Helping had gotten them into this mess, but they’d do it again. If the slaves the venatori had were free, it was worth being stuck in the past. 

“Something much needed, I think. Walk with me, Rook. There’s bound to be more demons.” He grabbed his crossbow again, and Rook followed, trying to be less.. Obvious, about how they felt. Heart pounding, a feeling behind their eyes like they could cry. Varric. Varric . Maker, it was him. Even the chesthair and the terrible andrastian phrases. 

“Have you been fighting for long?” Rook asked, when they dared speak again.

“Could be longer.” Varric shrugged. “Situation is pretty dire. Even in Kirkwall I don’t think I’ve seen destruction like this… Whole world is being swallowed up right now, little by little.”

“Someone will stop it. Or… Well, have you heard about the prisoner?” Rook asked. The herald of Andraste, they’d called Inquisitor Lavellan. It was harder for Rook to wrap their head around that, since the Tevinter Chantry didn’t idolize Andraste in the same way.

“The one that came out of a rift? A little.” Varric scanned the path ahead. “What about it? It sounds insane to me.”

“Maybe. But he has a mark, with strange magic. Myself and S- Some other mage, we thought maybe it could help. Whenever the prisoner wakes up at least.” Rook followed behind.

“You are a mage.. did you come from a circle?” Varric asked, looking over, studying Rook’s staff, then their face. “And well.. if the prisoner does have something that could help with all this shit.. it would have to be maker sent.”

“It might just be some magic shit, but we won’t know until he wakes up.” Rook made sure to avoid answering Varric’s question. Made sure to avoid looking him in the eyes too directly. Maker, he was alive. He had more time, they had more time. It wasn’t the same but it was… it was something. 

“Right… should we head back to Haven?” Varric looked back, his nose red and eyes tired. He could use a break.

“It might be best, for more supplies and to get an idea of the situation again. And my mana reserves aren’t.. ideal, right now.” Rook sighed. 

“Lead the way.” Varric gestured. Rook was glad for the excuse to turn away. If they looked any longer, something was going to give. They’d be crying and blubbering— and Varric would have no idea why. Embarrassing…

They led the way back to Haven; the name felt more literal in that moment. 

***

The breach was getting worse. It had expanded violently since the morning. Solas had hardly spent a moment away from Lavellan and Rook had been outside of Haven fighting any demons that got in close. Cassandra was on the field as well, a force of nature against the tide of constant demons erupting from rifts or crashing like meteors from the sky. Varric was some ways ahead, Rook thought. They wanted to go to his side, worried somehow that he might die. That a demon might catch him in the side or he might get hit with a stray spell– It made no sense, they knew he survived the Inquisition, they knew it would be okay. But would it? How much was already changed just by their very presence, how much had the venatori really shattered with their damn spell? 

Rook snarled as they bashed the end of their staff through the rib-cage of a shade, coming away with thick black goop. 

“There’s no end to the damn things! They’re coming up the road from somewhere!” Rook spun, throwing up a shield to shatter an incoming blow from a terror demon. The things came through in droves, feeding on the fear and the chaos caused by the rifts and the breach, drawn to it in a way Rook hadn’t ever seen before. Even in their time, they hadn’t seen many of the demons. 

“There’s probably a rift! Damnit, we don’t have the manpower for this!” Cassandra dashed in to shield Rook when they threw up another barrier and it failed, their magic shattering under tooth and claw. 

“Thanks,” Rook managed to get out. They were breathing hard, body aching. They had been using so much magic, healing injuries and fighting demons from the moment the sun rose and to the moment it went down. The night brought no calm, demons taking advantage of the darkness to attack and wraiths finding corpses to possess when they couldn’t be found. 

“You’re a capable fighter,” Cassandra flicked blood off her blade, assessing the distance between them and the next wave of demons. “Would be a shame if you went down.”

“I think so too, but I might be biased.” Rook leaned against their staff, taking deep breaths. “If we cut through the next wave, we might be able to get close to the rift that’s causing these ones. They’d still be coming, but they wouldn’t be getting so close to town.”

“Possibly, but we could lose a lot trying to gain that much ground…” Cassandra sheathed her blade. Safe for now, then. 

“If we send a small team, they may be able to go around the demons, instead of through. Cut off the source, the men here can kill the last ones coming in while the team sets up better blockades closer to it… Maybe Solas and I can use our magic to try and repair the veil?” Rook hated to suggest it. They weren’t sure where Solas’s power was, if he was any stronger in comparison to a normal mage at the moment, or if he would take advantage of the situation in some way. Cassandra had no clue, though, so suggesting otherwise was suspicious. 

“It’s… a good plan. You should collect Varric as well. I can go with you but let me–” Cassandra started to say, but a woman with a purple hood and chantry chainmail came rushing up. Red hair flashed from under her hood, and Cassandra looked a little surprised, but this woman was clearly familiar.

“Cassandra,” The woman greeted. Her accent was Orlesian. It struck Rook immediately, and they tilted their head a little. Divine Victoria of the Southern Chantry, rook realized. They’d met briefly after Varric brought them into the mission. Charter was in charge as the inquisition's spymaster once Leliana Nightingale became the divine, but she still checked in on her operatives. 

“Leliana, you have news?” Cassandra studied her face. It was something serious, given how she had rushed up, but her expression was hard to read.

“The prisoner is awake,” Leliana answered. “We need to go to Haven immediately– the elven apostate, Solas, he’s coming to help with the demons.”

“We had a plan to stop the waves of Demons… Rook, can you do it without me?” Cassandra looked at them.

“Maybe send a couple soldiers with us, but otherwise we will be fine.” Rook stood properly, putting their staff at their back. “We’ll be okay.”

“Fight well, Rook.” Cassandra turned, heading back towards Haven with Leliana. 

***

The rift was spewing demons from the fade out into the road. Rook hadn’t bothered trying to count them, it would take entirely too much focus from them fighting for their life. They barely had the energy to swing their staff anymore, their arms aching and burning up to their shoulders. It was almost welcome, at least focusing on keeping their own head on their shoulders distracted them from worrying about Varric, or expecting a knife in the back from Solas. 

Rook threw up a barrier, blocking some energy attacks from a trio of Wraiths. The attacks bounced off, and they rushed forward and slammed their staff into the ground to send forward spikes of ice, obliterating the demons in their path. The rift sputtered, but wasn’t going to spit out any more demons. A moment to breathe. Rook groaned, leaning against their staff. 

“Fasta vass…” Rook mumbled. “I need a nap… Is anyone injured?” Rook stood straight, turning to look at the others. Varric was looking over Bianca and Solas watched the breach. One of the soldiers held a wound on their side. Rook went over, starting to cast a healing spell. 

“Hey, keep your magic to yourself,” he snapped. “That’s what caused all this mess, I bet.” He grumbled, moving back and pulling bandages from his pack. Rook sighed.

“Maybe it did, but it definitely wasn’t my magic. If I was that powerful I wouldn’t waste it ripping the veil down.” Rook frowned, glaring at the man. It was… an odd feeling, to see so much hate towards magic. There were non-mages in Tevinter, and they grumbled and disliked being treated lesser for not having magic, but the hatred coming from southerners was… A lot different than this. 

Rook walked a circle around the rift, studying it. It twisted and warped everything around it, magic bursting and breaking, strange fade crystals growing and retracting. Rook stared into it, eyes burning a little from the bright light. Their skin crackled from the magic, the fade just there, like they could reach out and touch it. It wavered, energy gathering. Maybe, though, they could reach out, pull themself through to the other side and find their way back to their own time, back to Tevinter—

“Rook!” 

They were yanked back, forced to stumble away as the rift exploded with an energy blast that they were nearly caught in. Demons had appeared, smoking and hissing, ready to attack. 

“Eyes up!” Varric fired a crossbow bolt into one of the demons. 

Eyes up! We got company!

The memories wanted to pull them back, wanted to dig in and keep them there. 

Varric pulling them out of the path of demons, Venatori cultists, rushing towards Solas’s grand ritual. Where had it gone wrong? Why was the echo there now? Was it the fade, a raw and bleeding wound being picked at again, part of the Fade prison bleeding out somehow? 

Rook threw up a barrier, diving into battle. They drew their knife and put their staff at their back, having to get up close with the nearest demon. Rook forced ice magic through the blade, stabbing deep into the shade and leaping over it, slashing at the next demon with a yell and burning more mana on a chain lightning spell that electrocuted the next shade in front of them, the wraith Varric was trying to get a shot at, and the terror demon next to Solas. Varric seemed to pause, watching them fight for a moment. They moved in hard bursts of motion, using all the momentum they could to topple down any demons unlucky enough to meet their blade, and sending vicious spells whipping across the battlefield at anything else nearby. Rook had killed dragons and demons, slayed men and gods alike, nothing was to be spared from their wrath if they had their mind set on a target. 

The field was quiet sooner than they expected, but they were grateful for it. Rook took a deep breath, looking to their companions. The wounded soldier had fallen, and it didn’t seem like he’d be getting up anytime soon. Rook looked away from him, and the other soldier who was clearly grappling with the loss already.

“Do you think we can get this rift to close?” Rook asked Solas, gesturing to the rift that had calmed for the moment.

“It would take a great deal of energy— if we had Lyrium, perhaps, but you and I have both been expending mana at extreme rates since the breach opened. I fear we must wait until the marked prisoner is able to get to the field.” 

“The prisoner? What’ve they got to do with closing the rift?” Varric walked over, looking up at Solas.

“If I am right, the mark he possesses should close these rifts, and maybe even the breach itself. If I am wrong, the backlash of such an attempt will kill us all quickly. With either outcome, it won’t be a problem any longer, I think.” Solas looked at the rifts. “The prisoner is our only hope.”

“Grim and fatalistic..” Rook mumbled.

“I am being practical. That is all.” Solas looked over, switching the hands that held his staff— he didn’t seem entirely used to having such a tool, but the way he moved with it was still expert and practiced.

“I’ve got it! I’ll call you chuckles,” Varric suddenly said. “For you uh, special brand of optimism.”

“What?” Solas looked back at Varric, balking. His eyes widened a little and eyebrows raised, and Rook blinked as they noted the expression. He was a lot more wolf-like in mannerism than they previously believed. Still, the reaction was amusing and Rook couldn’t help but laugh.

“It’s a nickname, chuckles. It’s kind of my thing.” Varric beamed, seeming proud of himself. “Not sure what to give you yet, Rook. Rook.. hm… is it really just Rook?”

“Yes, it is really “Just Rook”, Varric.” Their chest twisted. They couldn’t think of being called anything else by Varric, a new name slotting in to replace what had been given to them. A name given that didn’t sting or bite at them the same way their birth name had. A name that had replaced the one they chose, but they’d had a part in taking on the moniker of rook, so it didn’t really hurt so much. “I don’t need a nickname.”

“Nonsense! All my traveling companions get nicknames. Except maybe the Seeker..” Varric paused, rubbing his chin.

“Do you ever get nicknames?” Rook found themself asking, and some kind of floodgate had opened in their chest. Maker, how many things did they carry with them, how many questions they hadn’t gotten to ask Varric that stirred so easily at the sight of him..?

“Ah, sometimes, but they never stick the same way.” He waved it off.

The rift behind them sputtered and Varric’s head snapped up. 

“More company.” He raised his crossbow. “We have to keep fighting. Even if the Seeker and the prisoner aren’t coming, Haven and the soldiers need relief!”

“On it!” Rook dashed forward, ready to greet the demons with blade and spell. Solas raised his staff in turn.

“We will give them as much time as we can!” He declared.

***

The rift crackled and the air burned with strange magic. Ozone filled Rook’s nostrils and they stepped back from the rift. Cassandra and the inquisitor— Lavellan, had swooped in from above, attacking the demons quickly and harshly. 

Their flanking attack had broken the demon’s ranks quickly,  but not quickly enough to save the remaining soldier.

“You must close it, quickly! Before  more come through!” Solas’s voice was harsh, strong enough to call over the screeching of the rift. It felt ironic, being reminded of a memory, but it was like that. Rook thought of Solas’s voice shaking when he spoke with Tarasahl about the Blight that Ghilain’an was growing in her lab, twisting to her will. 

 Solas grabbed Lavellan’s hand, holding it to the rift. The air had crackled with energy and it swelled, then snapped shut. Lavellan stepped back, shaking out their hand and looking at Solas with wide eyes. Time and magic had changed his eyes— they were much earthier in color than when Rook initially met the inquisitor. Less shock-green before the mark’s magic had worn deep into them.

“What did you do?!” Lavellan exclaimed, looking to their hand, then to Solas, then to the spot in the air where the rift had been previously suspended.

“I did nothing, the credit is yours.” Solas stood back, spine straight, looking vaguely downward at Lavellan. He was rather tall for an elf. This part of him felt far more familiar. Scholarly, prideful, a carefully crafted image of composure— And theatrical, to be certain.

(Rook thought about Taash. Rook thought about them joking, laughing at Solas; he’d made his body but he hadn’t given himself hair ? He had made his body, had such control over his being, he had made himself and been able to choose so much—)  

Bastard .

“You mean this?” Lavellan held up their marked hand. It glowed and pulsed, flickering with bright green light. Rook watched it, head tilting a little. It seemed… so small, and while it was a bit flashy, it didn’t look complicated. Like someone had put a fade rift on Lavellan’s hand, linking it to body and mind, something they could exert power over. 

“Whatever magic opened the breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand,” Solas explained. Lavellan looked at his palm, eyes narrowing, fingers flexing carefully and slowly. Lavellan seemed to be testing the magic, seeing how it moved and crackled, over top of his skin but a part of it at the same time, his being split and pulled through and anchored. Rook had never asked Lavellan in the past– future? (Rook decided to deal with thinking about the logistics of their situation later, again. Always later. They could never mourn on time.) about what the anchor had been like, except for the fact that it had been agony right before Lavellan had lost his arm to the magic becoming unstable. “I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake— It seems I was correct.” 

And smug about it , Rook thought. They busied themself with looking around the battlefield. The snow was splattered with blood that was already being buried with new layers. Demonic ichor mixed with red and they crouched to look over the body of the terror demon that was left, starting to dissolve into fine green powder that was hot enough to melt the snow and turn itself into a small pile of sludge. Like it couldn’t be held together in the real world once the life it had was snuffed out. How many of the demons had been spirits before the Breach in the sky? Now corrupted by fear, malice, grief… Rook sighed, standing and looking towards the group again, really trying to keep away now that things were in motion. Cassandra had finished adding her own thoughts, that the mark could close the Breach.

“It seems you hold the key to our salvation.” Solas folded his hands in front of himself. The ancient elven god seemed so small, humble even, wearing robes with thick stitching and fur lining, someone who had been traveling alone and carving out his own existence. A shell and a lie, a facade that Rook felt angry just looking at. After spending a year with Solas in their head, grand-standing and blaspheming and spitting about the power of the Gods, about how Rook had “played with forces they couldn’t possibly understand”, they knew how much of a lie this was, new how bitterly Solas was probably thinking, deep in his mind. 

They wondered if the blood magic connection was still there (Could they reach the Solas of their time? Angry as they were over this side of him, this part of him that hadn’t yet changed, their version of him was.. Trying, had broken himself again and again and was hopefully in the Fade, much changed in his ways. He might be able to help if they could just have time alone with a Rift, to find out how to reach him. Though, the thought of using that Blood-magic connection made their stomach turn.) and they wondered if it connected them to the Solas of this time, somehow. Maybe why they’d been brought so close to the Breach, and so far South?

Lavellan’s face paled as he took in that information, hand falling to his side.

Varric pulled at his gloves, sauntering over. He was swagger and charm, maybe a played up act to hide how terrified he was. He seemed confident, he seemed to have Bravado, and even if it was obviously an act, he was strong enough for putting it up in the first place. 

“Good to know.” The corner’s of Varric’s mouth twitched into an almost smile. Rook’s throat bobbed and they forced themself to turn, looking up at the Breach (they had to squint, it was bright, literally, and magically so, the raw magic made Rook squint and made the inside of their nose burn like a sneeze they couldn’t get out when they focused too long at it.) “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

Rook snorted, laughing, they couldn’t help it. Varric was… he was just funny. They missed that. They felt eyes on them, Cassandra looking over and raising a brow. They’d been quiet thus far, after all, maybe suspiciously so. A mage from Tevinter, with unclear origins and motivations that just made sense a little too much, would be suspicious to a Seeker of Truth. 

Then, Varric kept talking, and then their heart had been ripped out through their throat. It left an ache behind, one that had been twisting in their chest like a knot of scar tissue since they learned Varric had died, and worse that they hadn’t known, that flared up with pain all over again as Varric introduced himself, “Varric Tethras. Rogue, Storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome tag-along.” 

Cassandra made an unimpressed sound in the back of her throat. Rook clutched their staff so tight their knuckles ached and their head hurt, pressure pushing in on their temples and throat tightening. They took a deep breath, hoping the cold air would clear the grief-filled tension in their body at least a little, like an ice pack. 

“It’s good to meet you, Varric,” Lavellan responded good-naturedly. “I’m Cyrith of Clan Lavellan.” 

“You may reconsider that stance, in time…” Solas joked to Lavellan. 

“Awwe,” Varric feigned hurt. “I’m sure we’ll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles.”

“Absolutely not! Your help is appreciated, Varric, but–” Cassandra started saying. 

“The valley is swarming with demons,” Rook stepped over. Snow crunched undertow, and briefly they thought about how glad they were to have new boots with these conditions. Cassandra looked at them, and Rook considered putting up a magical barrier just to see if it might dampen the strength of her glare. “If you plan on going to the breach, you’re going to need people at your side.”

“They’re right,” Varric agreed. “Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.” They needed him. Varric talked big, talked like he didn’t want to be on the front lines, like he’d rather not get involved, but Rook knew him. Saw right through him, in that moment, the one time Varric would push himself hard into the situation and not brush it off. He was convincing himself and Cassandra— he had to be there. He had to help. It was the right thing to do, but he wouldn’t make the choice if he wasn’t pretending like someone else was doing it for him. 

Cassandra made another disgusted sound, but relented. 

“My name is Solas, If there are to be introductions.” The elf added, when Lavellan glanced at him, then turned properly towards the spot where the rift had been. “I am pleased to see you still live.”

“He means, “I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.”,” Varric translated helpfully. Varric looked at Solas, then at Rook, tilting his head knowingly. Rook avoided his gaze (it wasn’t hard), but Rook decided not to volunteer any information on their own involvement in helping Lavellan.

“You… seem to know a great deal about it all.” Lavellan commented. Rook watched Solas’s face, watched his mouth twitch in approval.

“Like you, Solas is an apostate.” Cassandra’s tone was frank, not accusatory. She was trying to be helpful, but Rook had to hold back a laugh at her use of the word apostate. And Solas helped with explaining why, as if all of them there didn’t know his words to be true.

“Technically, all mages are now apostates, Cassandra.” He narrowed his eyes. His tone was accusatory, looking down his nose at Cassandra, an arm of the Chantry, of the Divine, of powers that would have southern mages subjugated and locked up. Rook tried not to dwell on it as Solas continued. They needed to stop thinking so hard, they were going to give themself a headache. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed… We are all doomed, regardless of Origin.” 

“I welcome your help then. I’m certainly out of my depth here.” Lavellan sighed, staring at the Breach. “All of my magic feels.. Different, and wrong because of the Breach and… I think the mark has done something, too.”

“Its resonance, it’s probably running a lot quicker than yours,” Rook said. They didn’t know for certain (Bellara would have theories— so many theories, she would be speaking a mile-a-minute if she were here, probably bouncing on her toes and going to look at Rook’s hand.) “But that’s…. Probably magical theory best discussed when the danger has passed.” 

Rook realized it was the first they’d spoken to Lavellan the whole time, and it seemed to catch Lavellan off guard, his eyes a little wide and shoulders jumping. 

“Yes… Cassandra, you should know,” Solas took a few steps toward the Seeker, face strained to show concern. “The magic involved here is unlike any I’ve seen.” A blatant lie. “Your prisoner is a mage, but I find it difficult to believe any mage having that power.” 

Except maybe the ancient elven asshole– god, kind. 

“Understood.” Cassandra gave a polite nod, taking in the gravity of the situation. “We must get to the forward camp quickly.” 

“Well! Bianca’s excited!” Varric grinned, going to follow Cassandra and Solas as they went towards the road. Lavellan watched them for a moment, before going to follow. He made way for Rook, but they shook their head and gestured him forward. 

“I’ll take up the rear— We should take that side path,” Rook pointed for the others. “The road ahead is destroyed.”

“You’re right. This way, down the bank,” Cassandra changed course, gesturing with an arm. The group fell into line, Lavellan pushing past to take up the lead. This seemed to take Cassandra back a little, but she went behind Lavellan and then Solas went. This left Varric and Rook to follow behind. They fixed their gaze forward, heart racing, not sure what to say or what to do. 

This Varric doesn’t know them. Not even that he doesn’t remember, he doesn’t know them. And if they didn’t get back to their own time, he never would. 

“Three elven apostates, a Seeker of Truth, and a Dwarven Novelist walk into a valley full of demons…” Rook said under their breath. 

“Let’s hope this is the start of a great adventure, and not a bad joke, right?” Varric looked up at them, smile shining warmly, not like the cold, harsh green of the rift in the sky.

Rook nodded, swallowing, unable to respond. The snow crunched, and they continued towards the forward camp. Maybe it was just the start of a bad dream, and they’d wake up to Neve in their arms, and the Venatori wiped out. 

They’d asked for less, before. 

Chapter Text

More demons, more bloodshed, more of what Rook was unfortunately very used to. Rook had switched to only using their dagger and orb for the time being– It wasn’t the most effective form of combat, but if they had to keep swinging their staff around, they thought their arms might fall off. They were out of breath when the last of the demons on the river fell, turned to dust and sludge. 

“You are quite skilled at fighting demons,” Cassandra observed. They followed Lavellan’s lead, now. There wasn’t a clear path forward, and they were lacking in basic supplies, so Lavellan scouted ahead, searching through a nearby house for more. The group was collectively surprised that the building was still even standing. 

“Thank you,” Rook smiled, responding evasively. Cassandra, unfortunately, picked up on this. 

“You have experience,” Cassandra pressed. 

“I’ve definitely gotten more of it in the past several days.” Rook agreed. They waved a hand, layering magic over the ice that they were all walking on. It was precarious, and it would be embarrassing to all slip and die before even reaching the forward camp, so they made the surface rougher, easier to move on. 

“True enough…” Cassandra relented. They moved up the river. Lavellan paused to collect some elfroot. Rook waved a hand, orb floating around them and bouncing gently. It was already based in ice-enchantments, so the weather made it all the stronger. Lavellan was grateful for it. They wouldn’t be able to find other orbs, they’d have to make their own or something– Maybe commission one? They weren’t certain.

“That orb, how does it work?” Solas asked, approaching casually as they waited on Lavellan.

“It’s made of lyrium and metal. Enchantments are grafted all around it that give it a natural flow, a lot like a staff just… condensed. And able to float. I tap into it with Mana, and then I can use it as a focus, same as a staff or scepter.They’re more portable, quiet, and allow me to be more free in combat.” Rook explained, bouncing the Orb in front of Solas. 

“Fascinating… It is only a channel? Does it store power at all, beyond that which is natural to Lyrium enchantments?” Something was behind Solas’s eyes when he asked this, and Rook couldn’t entirely guess what it was. They shook their head, began to speak, but heard the rattling howl of a shade.

“Demons!” They turned, looking up the path. Three shades moved near a fire, corpses lying beneath them. Rook moved away from Solas, beginning to fire off spells. The others leapt to action as well.  The others leapt into action as well, Lavellan firing lightning off from their staff to paralyze the shades in a chain reaction, fast enough to do it before Cassandra’s blade connected and could become a conduit for the charge. Varric fired a volley of crossbow bolts, Bianca clicking and rattling with each trained shot. Solas finished the demons with a final wave of magic, a fireball that burst and destroyed the one that Rook had frozen solid and cauterized the other two into oblivion. 

Lavellan panted with exertion. “Damn things. Bellanaris din’an Heem…” 

“Hopefully we can close the breach soon, or else the demons will tear up the whole of the South…” Rook sighed. “And then some. And… Who knows what else.” 

“What do you mean?” Lavellan looked over, while he crouched down and gently moved the corpses out of the fetal position they were curled in. The strangers were templars, and had not died peacefully. Lavellan moved them and straightened them, folding their hands over their chests murmuring under his breath while he waited for Rook to respond. “ Falon’din enasal enaste…” 

“The raw magic will change the world just as much as the violence of demons,” Rook studied the templars, their cold, empty faces. Had they been cruel? Had they fought to the death? Had they deserved it? “And the Blight.”

The ground scraped nearby, Solas looking over but trying to stifle a reaction. Cassandra’s eyes widened.

“The Black City?” Cassandra put the dots together before Rook had to explain, to lie about why they thought the Blight would come from the Fade. “The Tevinter magisters who broke into the Fade were Blighted— Is there Blight in the fade?”

“It would make sense, if you believe the stories,” Varric dusted snow off of Bianca’s stock. “Shit.”

“We need to seal the Breach,” Solas spoke with urgency.

“Agreed.” Lavellan stood, putting an amulet over his neck. Something enchanted that he’d found among the Templar’s things, a life-ward.

The group started down the path again, cold wind blowing harder. Rook’s nose itched from the cold, and their ears– curse how long they were. There were elves with smaller ears, and Rook had never thought about it before, but that seemed a lot more convenient for a colder climate. Lavellan continued trying to find a way forward, heading towards some ruins. The wind was howling and the Breach rippled in the sky, but wasn’t expanding again just yet. How much time had passed? Rook tried to find the sun, to figure it out somehow. They had been stuck for days, but it felt almost like hours, between the fighting and the healing and everything. They had slept in Haven but it had been dreamless, broken easily by the noise and the bustle of Haven and warped by the Breach. They couldn’t quite concentrate enough to remember any dreams and it was probably for the best. They hadn’t even taken stock of all their things.

“You are Dalish, but clearly away from the rest of your clan” Solas asked Lavellan as they went down the path. To the others the question might seem plane, but Rook knew it was colored by bitterness, something they had detected when they saw Solas react to Lavellan’s Vallaslin (a fair reaction, they supposed, given what it meant in his time.) “Did they send you here?”

“What do you know of the Dalish?” Lavellan prodded with his own question. Rook couldn’t see his face but figured his eyes would be narrowing, waiting for some prejudiced thing to come from Solas. The Dalish were romanticized by many city elves, but the reality often turned out to be colder than that. At the same time, Rook had encountered Dalish who looked down upon those elves in Cities, and who pitied those who were forced into Slavery by Tevinter.

“I have wandered many roads in my time, and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion.” This was all Solas offered up as explanation. He expected hostility– Rook knew this. Solas had spoken of his folly with the Dalish, and the judgement he faced (Without really acknowledging his own unfounded judgement of them, of course.)

“We are both of the same people, Solas.” Lavellan responded, and Solas inhaled sharply, clearly caught off guard by this response. 

“The Dalish I met felt…” He hesitated, mouth working over the words. “Differently, on the subject.”

“Can’t you elves play nice for once?” Varric sighed. “What about you, Rook? You’ve got tattoos on your face, are you Dalish?”

“These aren’t vallaslin. Vallaslin is—” Rook needed course correction, fast, because the world didn’t yet know that they were slave markings. “Definitely nicer looking than these, and you can’t cry like a baby when you get them. Not that I– cried like a baby when I got my tattoos– I mean I cried a little but…”

Varric laughed. “I get it. Where are you from, then? Your accent is a bit hard to place.”

“It’s not very important right now, I mean the world is sort of caving in so..” Rook shrugged. They were hoping Cassandra didn’t decide to mention them being from Tevinter, not wanting that conversation– And mercifully, they were able to avoid it. Rook did cringe as Lavellan’s mark burst with more weird magic, Lavellan wincing and shaking out their hand. 

“Creators damn it all–” Lavellan snarled. 

“Are you… doing alright?” Varric frowned, going to Lavellan’s side.

“It hurts, but I’ll manage. Let’s keep moving.” 

“Aye, aye, captain,” Varric smiled, moving ahead. This let Lavellan walk a little slower, recovering from the pain in his hand. Rook wondered if it affected combat at all– The breach could expand at the wrong moment, cause a spasm… They knew he would be fine. He’d survive and lead the inquisition and be a legend but… But Rook had been sent back in time. Time travel was real, and things were different. Were there any guarantees right now, with the situation they were in? How many dominoes had toppled out of the line with Rook even just appearing, let alone interacting with all of these people? 

Rook couldn’t entirely focus as they contemplated this, following behind the others, staring into their footprints left behind in the snow. They were used to following those footprints, not making them, not having no tracks behind them leaving a path and a guide they could understand. 

“So you don’t remember what happened?” Varric asked Lavellan, voice distant. 

“No, not really.” Lavellan’s tentative response.

“Ah, that’ll get you every time. should have spun a story!” Varric informed them, surprisingly amused about the circumstances. He was joking but he was terrified, Rook could read it all over his voice. 

“That’s what you would have done, Varric.” Cassandra chastised him, readying her sword as she noticed demons on the path ahead. 

“It’s more believable!” Varric loaded a crossbow bolt. Rook got their orb ready, still just listening in the background. Solas seemed to be doing the same thing, but he looked like he was… enjoying himself? Rook noticed a slight smile on his face, a lift to his eyebrows that hadn’t been there before. “And less prone to premature execution.” 

“Just hope that it isn’t blood magic preventing you from remembering…” Rook mumbled, before they could think better of it.

“What?” It unfortunately caught Cassandra’s attention. Rook also belatedly remembered making the excuse that they’d hit their head just before meeting her— they could only hope she didn’t think they were currently under the influence of blood magic.

“It— I,” Rook stumbled, fumbling for an excuse, a deception, but their natural talent for staying out of trouble only stretched so far, and lying was harder with so many eyes on them and enough focus to scrutinize their story. “I’d rather not talk about it. But suffice to say, having someone use blood magic on you isn’t fun.”

“You can say that again. Saw plenty of it when things went to shit in Kirkwall.” Varric sighed. 

“I am… sorry to hear that you went through something like that,” Cassandra said. “Seekers are immune to blood magic, but I’ve seen its effects first-hand.”

“That’s terrifying.. what if it is blood magic keeping me from remembering?” Lavellan spoke up, tone thin with fear. 

“Then it can be broken, at least, but we don’t know yet. Honestly, you might have just hit your head really hard.” Rook continued up the path. The back of their throat burned a little with bile, thinking of the year they spent, unable to feel the grief, all the things they’d said, unknowing of Varric’s death. And not one companion had been able to stop it, not even Emmrich had detected that effect of Solas’s blood magic, or been able to counter it. 

Solas did not add to the conversation. Rook was glad for it. 

They fought through more demons, two shade demons and a few wraiths. They hit hard and the wraiths had some kind of weakening magic if they managed a hit, but Rook was good at dodging. Except when it came to massive rituals with catastrophic results, it seemed. Lavellan had similar luck, so Rook was glad they weren’t alone. Timing was everything, and everything was… Kind of shitty. 

The forward camp was finally coming into view, set up on a bridge at the base of the mountain that made up the foundation of the Temple of Sacred ashes. Soldiers stood behind Barricades, likely exhausted after fighting hopeless wave after wave of demons from the rift right in front of their gates. Maybe not the smartest location for a forward camp, but also maybe one of the only options available. Rook was grateful that Lavellan made short work of the rift. They wanted to sit down and breathe, at least for a moment. They needed to be able to lift their staff again, they needed more protection. 

“Are you alright?” Varric asked them as they passed through the gates. There was some argument going up ahead, and Cassandra, Lavellan, and Solas went ahead. 

“Exhausted, Varric..” Rook responded. “But I’ll be fine. We just… We have to keep going.” They needed to keep going. Varric gave Rook a look. A frown was fixed on his face and his eyebrows furrowed. It was a wonder Varric in the future hadn’t looked even older. 

“Sure, but slow down if you need to, alright?” Varric went over to the group that was arguing, sighing softly.

“What do you think we should do?” Cassandra asked, voice exasperated.

“You’re asking me?” Lavellan looked at her, surprised.

“You have the mark,” Solas pointed out.

“And we cannot agree,” Cassandra answered. 

Lavellan looked at the people surrounding them, frowning. “We should take the mountain path. Work together. You all know what’s at stake.” 

Cassandra frowned, looking up the mountain. It isn’t the choice she would have gone with, clearly, but…

“We will go. Leliana, gather the soldiers. Take everyone in the valley, everyone we have left.”

“Good luck.” Leliana nodded. 

“Maker preserve us…” The man they’d been arguing with, a man in a southern chantry robe, said under his breath. He was clearly not going to be joining the fighting. Rook decided he seemed like an asshole, and looked to the group. They were waiting for them to follow but…

“Go on ahead without me. I’ll help the soldiers. If they encounter any rifts, I can use my magic to put up barriers to contain demons if we don’t have enough manpower,” Rook decided. 

“Are you certain?” Cassandra asked. 

“I am, You’ll be alright without me– Good luck.” Rook smiled. Cassandra nodded to them, and went to follow.

“Good luck to you as well,” Lavellan told them, and led the group towards the mountain path.

“Rook, is it?” Leliana approached. She wore a violet hood and chainmail armor marked with chantry symbols. 

“Yep, that’s me.” Rook turned, smiling at her. 

“I have to gather everyone from the valley. You were with Cassandra and the others for some time, so you’re obviously a capable fighter.” She stated it clearly but she seemed to be appraising them, from the tip of their pointed ears to their feet. “I want to send you and a few trusted scouts ahead. We have some men near the temple already, they need backup. Cullen Rutherford is already there.”

“Whatever you need, I’m at your disposal.” Rook nodded, biting back a formal address quickly. Leliana was a spymaster, she would notice every odd look, broken syllable, and see through most easy lies Rook could present. The best thing to do was avoid questions altogether.

“Good. See a healer for any injuries, then meet my scouts at the other side of the bridge.” With that, Leliana stepped past them, rushing off to gather those who were needed. 

A Healer– Rook hoped that meant a mage, and lyrium potions, and a rejuvenation spell. They’d take anything to perk up— even coffee, despite hating the substance. They spotted a robed figure crouching over an injured man, and thank the Maker, they were carefully weaving blue light over the man’s wounds. Healing magic. Rook approached, but kept back to not distract from the more severe case the healer was dealing with. The healer stood and turned, seeming to have known that Rook was there already.

“How are you hurt? What’dy’a need?” The healer was an older human, face lined with wrinkles and freckles, a few scars on their chin and one on their lip. They looked Rook up and down, waving their hands and calling magic forth. The magic was steady, the mage clearly knowing what they were doing. All the small cuts and bruises Rook had gotten over the past few days and neglected to heal disappeared in that instance. 

“I– Just minor things, really, but I’m so exhausted I could drop,” Rook answered. 

“I see, I see,” They nodded. “Here, I have lyrium potions. Let me get my staff, I’ll do more of a spell on ya, give ya a boost…”

“Thank you,” Rook smiled.

“Course. I will help how I can… These are dark times..” the healer sighed.

“That they are..” Rook sighed. “It will get better.”

“Got hope then? Good.” The mage picked up their staff, starting to cast a spell. Rook felt the magic moving across their skin, like dipping into comfortingly cool water and chewing elfroot. “People need it in times like these. Lots of youngins losing their heads, seeing the world on fire. Fine to freak out, but you can freak out and put the fire down at the same time…” 

“Been through times like these before?” Rook asked.

“Survived the Blight, I did.” They nodded. “Tower was going to hell, and when it wasn’t, the rest of the world was, to the Darkspawn. But I made it. I survived it, so did others. It was hard, and traumatizing, but if you’re alive, there’s things worth doing and feelings worth feeling… All we can ask for, Maker willing.”

Rook nodded. “Even when.. Things seem impossible?” They understood what the mage was saying. Maker, didn’t they? They had brought down gods, they had gone through something of a Blight, and come out the other side, but this… They had been sent far back, way before the other side, out of time and out of their depth…

“Only impossible when you haven’t made the possibility yet, kid. Now, get out there, or a line’ll form after ya.” The mage smiled at them, handing off some lyrium potions and getting back to their work. Rook felt a lot lighter, despite the dark storm of thoughts brewing in their mind. At the very least, they couldn’t stop and think about it all now, possible or not. They needed to get up to meet Leliana’s scouts. 

A plan was forming in Rook’s mind. Meet the scouts, do what was necessary. Find a rift and see if the dagger was useful. They drank a lyrium potion, and started down the bridge.

***

The top of the mountain was worse than the valley. The breach was a gaping hole in the world, spewing demons and crackling with raw magic, and Rook was tiny and vulnerable beneath it, but all of the magic in their body reacted to the pulses of the breach. They were a torch and the breach was a pit of natural gas. Rook held their neck in place, terrified to look up, like they would fall up into it. This must have been what dwarves from Orzammar felt like when they first came to the surface. 

“Keep moving, you two!” One of Leliana’s scouts called back to them. Sketch, the elven mage Rook was standing beside, snapped to attention. Then went to follow the scout, saying nothing. 

“Sorry,” Rook kept walking. Soldiers rushed back and forth, nurses tended to wounded and to bodies alike. Rook heard the tell-tale screech and crackle of a rift nearby, and the sounds of combat. 

“Good, you’re here! There’s no end to these demons, and I have men who need to fall back!” Cullen was there, helping a wounded soldier along to a safer area. Demons roamed in the area around the rift, glowing brilliant green, warping the air around it. They wouldn’t go far– They seemed mindless. In the hours of fighting the demons, they hadn’t spoken an understandable word and displayed much intelligence beyond a knack for violence… But they were clever. They were thinking creatures, and that made them all the more scary. They could think, speak, manipulate, but sometimes they didn’t need to manipulate much at all, just nudge and watch. Just inch closer and closer to what you needed, mold you however they wanted, and using whatever means and whatever lies— 

Rook shook their head, grabbing their staff. Sketch went to speak with Cullen and help with the wounded. This left Rook to join the fray. The demons didn’t go far from the rift. Rook redirected their thoughts in the proper directions: The demons weren’t mindless, and they didn’t go far from their rifts if they could help it. This world was not their world. It did not obey, it did not bend to their will, and so they had to break it, but they wouldn’t go far from their rifts if they could help it, because the fade was still within reach. Power was still within their reach. 

There were still a number of soldiers around. Rook was almost alone with the rift but— They needed space, they needed time.

“All of you, fall back! You’re exhausted, I’ve got this!” Rook told them.

“Are you mad?!” one soldier protested.

“A little, yeah!” Rook responded, twirling their staff. “But I’m also about to level this place with ice, so I need you to fall back !” 

“Oh, shit!” The soldier was no longer protesting. In fact, none of them hesitated in getting the fuck out while it was still possible. Rook grinned, and raised their staff. They hadn’t needed to use their strongest spell, to throw around the weight of their magic as hard as they could before this, but now they had to. They slammed their staff down and the air around them became razor sharp, the snow flakes turned to weapons and ice crystals shooting from the ground, surrounding them, consuming everything in its path. The demons were obliterated, turned to ice statues upon contact with Rook’s spell. They concentrated on the rift and the energy coming through, on how they were inherently pulling mana and spells from the Fade, and tied the blizzard’s energy to the Rift. It would break after a few minutes, but hopefully that was enough time to see if the dagger would work. 

They pulled the wolf’s fang from their belt, lyrium glowing bright. 

”The final enchantments require a delicate touch…”  

The backlash of this could be deadly. So, Rook knew they couldn’t mess up. They raised the dagger to the rift, and stabbed into the air. Despite there being nothing, the dagger caught, digging in-between the worlds, reality and the Fade, and prying at the connection. Solas’s life was tied to the veil, his being to the dagger in some inherent way, and even if the time Rook was in couldn't reach him… This might. They dug the dagger in deeper, willing their magic through the Lyrium. There was a howling in their ears, but they couldn’t be sure if it was the wind or something else. 

“Come on… Come on,” Rook hissed, watching the rift. “Solas, please…”

The howling was getting louder, their ears felt like they were going to burst– The altitude was bad enough, this felt like an ice-pick in the side of their skull. 

Rook’s vision was blurring, spots forming– Except, they were too uniform. Six glowing teal spots, right in front of Rook. Their head hurt so much Rook wasn’t entirely convinced that it wouldn’t burst. 

“ Rook .” Solas’s voice thundered in their ears, bringing them to their knees. ”What is this? This magic, this– What are you doing with my dagger? To the Fade! I feel it, I sense you–” 

Rook could feel the tether, the blood magic that Solas had used to communicate, and that Rook had figured out how to grab onto and pull, using the dagger, which had drawn Solas’s blood, to reinforce it and reach him. 

“I was— I was sent back in time! There was a venatori ritual, we interrupted— I don’t think I have much time to explain, can you help me?!” Rook called over the wind, shivering from cold and from the amount of power they were exerting.

The howling was still there, loud and clear, mixing with the wind.

”That is… quite a predicament. How far back in time did you go? The veil is– it is in tatters where you are!”

“Twelve years ago, the breach is in the sky, please I don’t have much time!”

”I… I cannot bring you back. I sense you, and the blood magic bond is still in place but you are beyond my reach for now. Stay alive, stay safe– Be careful not to change much– Time is delicate and keeps everything in balance in the real world, You could shatter existence with this!”

“I–” They could feel the magic of the blizzard slipping. Rook cursed, and yanked the dagger back. It was possible to contact someone from their time. Not the someone they wanted, but if it was going to be anyone… Solas would have the power to fix this, given the time. The spell broke off, no response from Solas, but they would find him. They put the dagger back on their belt, just in time for the rift in front of them to flare, and the blizzard to explode in their face. Rook was thrown back, hitting some rubble hard as the air cleared and a demon roared. 

“Fucking– Enough!” Rook jerked their arm, a spear of ice following the movement and impaling the demon. 

“Rook!” Cullen rushed over. “What was that? Are you crazy!?” 

“Probably.” Rook pushed themself up and brushed themself off. “Got a little out of hand. I’m sorry. This close to the breach, the magic is… It’s different. I didn’t expect it.” 

“Well.. you killed those demons.” Cullen looked at the rift. “We’ll have to wait to get that closed.”

“It might on its own. I mean.. The magic holding that open is connected to the breach more directly. So closing that would do it. Still, You should put up a barricade around it to keep it contained. The demons won’t go far from the rift so you can go around it if necessary to get to the rest of the temple..” 

“That… weirdly makes sense.” Cullen sighed. “I’ll get some men right on it. The prisoner was spotted approaching, so we’re going to join him and see what needs doing. You should drink a potion, you’ve got to be exhausted after a spell like that.”

“Nah, I’ve never been better.” They 100% had. 

Cullen gave him an odd look, but went to gather his men. Rook continued down the path, spotting a group of four coming down the mountain. As they arrived, they took in the devastation.

“That is where you stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious, and our soldiers found you…” Cassandra spoke deathly soft. She pointed to an obliterated pillar. “They said a woman was in the rift behind you, no one knows who she was…”

“Creators, the whole mountain top is leveled… how could I survive this..?” Lavellan looked around. 

“If you were sucked into the Fade at the moment of the explosion, the blast wouldn’t have caught you. You were fairly injured when found, however.” Solas looked around. 

“Let’s keep moving. Look, it’s Rook,” Varric pointed ahead as they approached. 

“Glad you could make it. Weather still looks like breach with heavy precipitation of demons and Fade crap.” Rook finished making their way over. “But it could have been worse.”

“We’re pleased to see you,” Solas looked at the direction Rook had come from. “There’s another rift, but that ice is all over…”

“Blizzard spell. Took a lot of mana but it froze most of the demons solid. The rift is calm for now.” Rook explained. They felt lighter, better. There wasn’t a guarantee that they could get back, but they’d made contact. Someone knew where they were. Neve... Might be able to know that they weren’t dead.

“That’s powerful magic,” Cassandra said. “No matter. We should keep moving, we’re almost there.”

“Yeah. Fill me in on what happened in the mountain pass?” Rook joined the group as they made their way towards the epicenter of the breach. Their skin was itchy, raw from cold and now from all the magical energy around them. They couldn’t tell if Lavellan or Solas were as bothered by the rift— Lavellan could easily be distracted from the mark, after all.

“We fought through some demons that had taken up residence in the mine shafts that way,” Lavellan spoke up. “Found some equipment too. Then sealed a rift outside. Some of Leliana’s scouts survived, so we were able to save them.” 

Lavellan sounded relieved. Rook knew how he felt, knew that he was under immense pressure with the mark, with having to take charge because anyone with real authority couldn’t stop arguing for five seconds to focus on the thing in front of them– For Rook, it had been the Gods, and for Lavellan, it was the Breach. (And then, the mages and templars, and then the Grey Wardens, and then Orlais… One thing after another. Rook did not envy Lavellan for the position he was about to be in. At least as long as Rook stayed, Lavellan had someone who understood. At least as long as Rook stayed, they could follow and not lead, a bit of a vacation.)

“Good to hear, any lives saved is worth it.” Rook responded, then went silent as the worst of the damage came into view. There was a deep crater , the only thing that stood from it was  a massive pedestal and maybe two thirds of the statue of Andraste. “Maker’s ass, that’s big.”

Cassandra looked offended at Rook’s language, but had other priorities. 

“This is your chance to end this, are you ready?” She turned to Lavellan, who stepped forward, eyes wide and full of the brilliant green reflection of the rift. The own green of his eyes was swallowed up, as if erased.  

“I don’t know if I can reach that… I mean, where would I start at getting up to that thing?” Lavellan took a few more steps forward.

“No, this rift was the first. And it is the key,” Solas stood beside Lavellan. “Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.” 

Rook stepped back, bristling a little. In their time with Solas in their head, he had two tones. Sometimes they had forgotten themself, managing to have verbal jabs, playful banter even. Almost like Solas was a regular person and not an ancient evil. Other times, they had been severely irritated, because he spoke in this grandiose, poetic way, and that was starting to cut into his voice. Rook didn’t know what to do with it.

“Then let’s find a way down, and be careful.” Cassandra turned, starting to walk ahead. They could just jump down, but the ground didn’t seem stable. Lavellan went to take the lead. He didn’t get very far, freezing up as a deep, menacing voice echoed across the crater. 

”Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”

“What are we hearing!?” Cassandra exclaimed, following when Lavellan tentatively began walking again.

“Sacrifice? That’s never good,” Lavellan commented.

“At a guess, the person who created the breach,” Solas explained to Cassandra. They continued a little further, moving along the edge of the path and still hunting for a safe way down. Then the red lyrium was there. It hummed low, off to the edges, a ringing in Rook’s ears. Varric inhaled sharply.

“You know this stuff is red lyrium, seeker!” Varric stressed. Great red stalks of crystal jutted out of the ground. Red lyrium… A blighted titan, the infection seeping into the crystal, and it couldn’t do anything about it. Rook looked at Solas’s face, subtly trying to gauge his reaction. There was something weary in his eyes, something in the lines beneath them that showed a bit of strain, a bit of guilt that could be easily misread as concern. Solas had done this. He had done this.

“I see it, Varric.” Cassandra agreed. Perhaps equally worried, equally afraid, but all she could do was acknowledge Varric, placate him for the moment.

“But what’s it doing here? ” Varric continued to stress. Rook wasn’t sure they’d heard Varric like this. He’d been hurried when the demons swarmed Minrathous, he had expressed disgust and anger throughout their travels at the actions of the Venatori and other bad actors across northern Thedas, and he’d spoken with grief about the things that he’d lost and the horrors that he had faced. This kind of outright fear, fear of the unknown and the dangerous, something coming back to haunt him. Varric knew somewhere deep down that the red lyrium was greater than him, greater than Kirkwall and the ancient Thaig. Maybe it had to do with being a dwarf, or maybe it was common sense to see that it was rooted in something deeper. 

“Magic could have drawn on Lyrium beneath the temple, corrupted it…” Solas offered as an explanation. Varric hissed through his teeth, shaking his head and walking a pace faster.

“It’s evil! Whatever you do, don’t touch it!” Varric warned. 

“If anyone investigates this place later, we should find a way to cordon off the red lyrium veins,” Lavellan mentioned. “There has been enough death here.”

Just as they passed the last of the red lyrium, that deep voice echoed through the air again.

”Keep the sacrifice still!” An order barked by someone clearly familiar with making them. Corypheus. If they were really stuck here… It would feel good to see the hand behind the Venatori be beaten into a bloody pulp, as a Tevinter elf and also as a Shadow Dragon. 

”Someone! Help me!” A new voice, terrified, orlesian…

“That is Divine Justinia’s voice!” Cassandra’s own voice was full of emotion: fear, confusion, grief, so many things all twisted up in one observation.

Finally, though, they’d come to a spot low enough that they could get down. Lavellan jumped first, and Solas followed easily with Cassandra. 

“Want help?” Rook glanced at Varric. The drop was more severe for him.

“I’ll manage. Probably,” Varric shrugged one shoulder, jumping down. Rook heard his grunt when he landed, following the rattle of the chain necklace he wore. (One Rook had teased him about on more than one occasion).

Rook followed silently. The air was feeling more and more tense. Then the sky burst again, and vague oily shadows became clear in the air, the silhouette of a twisted creature. Then strange, misty versions of an old woman in a fancy chantry robe.

”Someone! Help me!”  

Lavellan entered at a place that might have been a door once, but was mostly rock now. The misty vision form rippled in the air, more so because it was going through Rook.

“Ah!” Rook moved back, an odd feeling moving over their skin like gravel stones being pressed slowly against them in rows.

”What’s going on here?” Lavellan’s voice was added to the crater. The real Lavellan, right in front of Rook, looked uncomfortable at hearing his voice.

“That’s your voice! Divine Justinia called out to you, but–” More desperation was leaking into Cassandra’s face, her voice, her eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, taking in the things happening before her.

”Run while you can! Warn them!” Divine Justinia turned, yanking on the magic holding her back. Before, she had been worried for her own survival. Now she saw no way out, for whatever reason, she was desperate in that moment to save everyone else. Even at the cost of her own life.

”We have an intruder!” The shadowy figure pointed with a clawed finger. ”Rattus. Slay the elf.”  

Rook flinched at the use of that word, having had it thrown at them time and time again. Lavellan stood, dumbstruck at the vision unfolding right in front of them.

Then the vision burst into bright light and magical energy, everyone flinching against the force of it.

“Fuck–” Rook hissed.

“You were there!” Cassandra’s desperation was still there but it had been turned towards accusation. “Who attacked!? And the divine, is she— Was that vision true? What are we seeing?” 

The flurry of questions hit Lavellan one after another and Cassandra stepped closer and closer. He held up his hands, taking a step back.

“I don’t remember!” Lavellan said firmly. “I fell out of the fucking fade with this mark, which hurts, and is killing me, and I have helped you get this far. I do not remember what happened!”

“Echoes of what happened here…” Solas spoke calmly, explaining to Cassandra. “The Fade bleeds into this place.” There was hope in his voice, hope and fascination mixing together as he gave the rift an appraising look. 

“Maybe… I know someone, who works with Fade echoes sometimes– She— I could maybe tug on it, a bit? Try and get more information?” Rook offered. They thought of Neve, thought of chasing leads through Docktown and how she weaved her magic, plucking at the veil, careful and practiced. They wanted to see more of what happened at the breach, and bring the tension down.

“It might be too volatile to try something like that near the Rift and the Breach,” Solas shook his head. “This rift is not sealed, but it is closed; albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely.” 

Solas turned, looking at the new and gathered companions. Lavellan looked down at his marked hand. Solas continued, “However, opening the rift is likely to attract attention from the other side.”

“That means demons!” Cassandra moved away from the group, addressing the gathered soldiers and scouts. “Stand ready!”

Soldiers moved to positions, ones with higher ground and distance from the rift, blades and bows drawn. Rook got out their own staff. 

“What do you mean by closed safely?” Rook asked. 

“The breach will stop expanding, and Lavellan will be safe from the mark spreading any further and causing more pain,” Solas answered.

“Let’s do this, then.” Rook nodded, heading towards the field. The statue of Andraste loomed above, marble scorched and dark. It had been painted once, maybe, in brilliant colors and thick layers, but time and the explosion of the breach had stripped the once regal statue bare. 

Lavellan approached the rift, staring up into it. He looked uncertain, rocking back onto his heels. When everyone was at the ready, Cassandra gave him a nod. He closed his eyes, and threw out his arm. Rook figured Lavellan didn’t quite know how the magic worked just yet, all twisted up and different to anything he had used before, ancient… The mark linked to the rift immediately, however, and Lavellan cried out a bit when it did. Magic sparked and rumbled in the air. The rift started to glow, brighter and brighter, and then— 

The sky burst, Lavellan thrown back with enough force that Rook had to catch Lavellan to help him regain his balance. Lavellan grabbed his staff, looking into the space before the rift, which was glowing and swelling with magic. A new crater had formed and something was rising with it. Steam came off it, lightning crackling in the air. Six wide, violet eyes blinked open as a massive Pride Demon took its first breaths in the real world. Twisted and made with spines, thick black carapace clicking as it stretched out its arms. A soldier yelled, blade raised as she ran towards the demon with violent fervor, ready to attack. 

Maybe her fight or flight had been triggered, and she had chosen to fight, but as quickly as she made the brave decision to attack, her assault on the Pride demon was ended. It let out a deep, inhuman laugh, it swooped down and snatched her off her feet in a massive clawed hand. Fingers and knuckles flexed, baring down with sharp claws and her body burst, bone crunching and her organs caved in so fast she didn’t even have time to scream for fear or for pain. Everyone gathered to fight gave a collective cringe, but they couldn’t hesitate. Not when the demon raised a hand, crackling with electrical magic, and went to attack. 

Rook sprang into action, not able to keep track of what everyone else was doing, it became a chaotic mess. Arrows flying through the air from archers, and the buzz of a barrier spell on their skin from Solas. The whirs of Bianca were familiar, at least, almost affirming to Rook as they summoned spikes of ice from the ground to attack the demon. It was absolutely massive and had a thick shell, not to mention its own magical defenses. 

Blood rushed past Rook’s ears as they darted around the battlefield, dodging lightning and claws. It laughed when it killed a soldier, sinister and deep, amused by the quick end of a puny mortal underneath its claws. The air smelled like iron and ozone and it made Rook want to retch. It wasn’t the stink of blight but it had been so long since their blood had pumped like this, since they had seen lives cut short so quickly by such a beast. 

(Hadn’t they fought a pride demon, right before the ritual? Before the end?)
“We must strip its defenses! Wear it down!” Cassandra called, trying to make any kind of order on the field, but they did not control the battle. 

“The rift! Use the mark, it will cause a shockwave!” Solas sent a fireball at the pride demon. Probably ironic for him to be fighting such a thing— Focus. Rook needed to focus. They gasped as lightning whizzed by, forcing them to put up a shield, which shattered from the next attack and sent them flying.

“Rook!” Varric rushed over, grabbing their arm and yanking them to their feet. It was an awkward motion, since they were a lot taller and a lot more willowy compared to Varric. It almost threw them off balance again but they planted their staff. 

“I’m alright!” Rook said, looking up. Just in time. The demon had a massive orb of magic forming in its palms, and its mouth was open and grinning, sharp teeth revealed as the carapace plates on its face peeled back to reveal gum and ivory. It had no tongue, but pincers that twitched as it laughed. Rook had little doubt in their mind that it was laughing at them. “Varric, look out!” They moved. They couldn’t let him get hurt, they couldn’t see Varric go down again, Maker they couldn’t do it– Even if he survived, he was sure it would break them. Maker, Varric’s last words had been their name and they never knew what to do with that. They shoved Varric hard with their magic, force pulled from the fade like gravity redirected. Varric’s eyes were wide with confusion, but clarity moments later when the demon fired its attack. The orb of lightning crashed into Rook. 

And it burned . Their muscles spasmed and jolted, energy moving through all the metal pieces of their staff and their armor, their body was sent flying as they jerked against their will. They hit the ground and crumbled in on themself, tendons cramping violently and the thick, coppery scent of blood filled their nose and their mouth, they choked and strained, trying to keep their eyes open against the pain sparking across every nerve. 

They failed. Instead the world swam out of focus, and the last thing they felt was sharp rock poking their skin as their head dropped, and everything went slack, except the occasional jump from the electrical current still running through them. 

At least it was not Varric. It was better if it was them– Their work was done. 

It was better if it was Rook. 

Chapter Text

The world swung back and forth before Rook’s eyes. Their body being tossed with it, rolling in hills of endless sand. It was hot, they knew somewhere in their mind that the sand was supposed to be hot, scorching at temperatures that should have raised blisters across their skin and dulled their nerves. They didn’t feel it, they just knew it was hot and dry. It wasn’t supposed to be coarse, though, there were thousands of tiny granules, so many that they knew implicitly that the sand was soft. Even when the world jerked left and right, in a constant, perfect rhythm. 

Like the pendulum of a clock, Rook realized, but they were also being tilted over and over again like they were stuck in an hourglass. Just as they realized this, Rook was sent careening of the rhythm, skidding to a stop at the top of a grassy hill. Rook groaned, pushing themself upright, they weren’t in pain but they knew they should be . It just made sense, it was just reality. 

They looked out across the field they had found themself in. The grass was brittle, trampled by a thousand feet. There were piles of bodies and flames roaring below, warping the air with their heat. Bodies were burning below, they could almost smell the flesh and hair cooking down to ashes. They didn’t really recognize the battlefield, it could have been anywhere. Maybe real, maybe not, maybe pulled from the annals of time or the pages of a story they read once as a child. Maybe from the truth they had pulled from their Father finally, age twelve, so small and confused, their body wrong, their name wrong, and they knew they were an elf and their father was a human, so there were already so many puzzle pieces that didn’t interlock, more like they’d been pressed together because no other pieces had been around to fit with. 

A foundling, a tiny, innocent thing abandoned on a battlefield (had they been a spoil of the war they couldn’t remember? They were never sure.), picked up and adopted by their father when he was at war; the war that made his eyes glassy and brought him to drink one too many times in a year. 

A storm crackled in the distance, lightning and magic, and it was calling to them in a way they didn’t know how to explain. They began to walk, feet carrying them across the field, and they didn’t feel like they were walking fast but the distance was easily eaten up. Soon enough they stood in the center of a violent storm, rain whipping around and lightning crackling, calling through their blood, magic and mana, things so innate to them. When they began to show signs of magic at the young age of seven, it hadn’t been entirely unexpected, but their father wasn’t a mage. He was out of his depth. He made mistakes. He had regrets– Maker, if their father could see them now…

“This is a dream,” Rook murmured, and their voice was swallowed up by the storm. They had to repeat it. “This is a dream. This is the Fade.” Which Fade? The Fade of their time, the present they knew, with no threat of Blight looming over the world anymore, with flowers in the Anderfels and slaves being freed every day in Minrathous, their time, where Neve was surely waiting, ready for trouble? Or was it the time they had been thrown back into, Southern Thedas, with the Breach in the sky and the Venatori in numbers they couldn’t fathom, an army was coming , and Solas had told them— Told them they could shatter reality with this. Or was it all one fade, all the time, running together? How did anything work if that was the case?

Was Neve even alive? Last time they’d stopped a ritual, they lost Varric. Could it be, this time, that they’d lost Neve? Bellara? Emmrich? Emmrich, who was petrified of death, and while it had been soothed by making more connections outside of the Necropolis (Strife, the team), and by watching Manfred flourish (Neve still called him Fred. It was sweet.), it was still there in some form, and he didn’t deserve to have his life cut short. Not when Rook could have prevented it, not when they could have just waited for once and come up with a plan. 

”This is Rook. They’re one of the strongest pieces on the board… But they tend to think in straight lines.”  

Straight into trouble, Rook knew, walking through the storm. Their throat was tight, maybe they were choking.

No.

“This is a dream. This is the Fade.” Rook took a deep breath. They felt the heat of the fires from the battlefield at their back (or, they knew they should have felt that). They refused to turn their head, even when they felt so small. A small child, seven years old, barely into their magic, demons whispering at the edges, but they knew . And they had to tell themself that. “It can hurt me but I have to let it. I’ll wake up. I’ll wake… wake up.”

They kept walking, the ground beneath them grew unstable, made of fine and deep sand, nearly impossible to keep their footing. The storm still swirled around them, electricity and water moving against their skin, their molars buzzing. 

”Rook? Rook, can you hear me?”  

Solas. Real or the fade? A demon, or an ancient god? (Had there ever been a difference?)

If it was a demon, Rook could not expect it. It would warp to their perception, the fade was a dangerous place, shaped by thoughts and imagination, the only weapons at Rook’s disposal, but they grew weary of holding the blade. 

“I hear you, where are you?” Rook looked from side to side, and forward, but never back. 

”I am far from here, but it is the Fade, so I am near.”  

(“Are you one spirit who moves around, or in multiple places at once?” Rook had asked the caretaker one day on the Ferry. Similar to Solas’s method, it had given a vague, non-answer: “As needed dweller.”)

“Okay..?” Rook sighed. “What’s going on?”

”I presume you are unconscious,” came Solas’s answer. The lightning in front of them struck the same place several times, a figure forming out of the mist and rain. Solas, or some version of him, but he was hard to fully see, like looking through frosted glass. 

“It’s… Likely.” That sounded like them, but they couldn’t entirely remember, and the thought flitted away from them like a hand trying to trap an erratic wisp. It was rude and it was impossible.

”It is easier to communicate this way, at least. Using a rift from the time that you were thrown into was a smart idea, it amplified the magic of the dagger through the Fade.” Solas was holding a staff. Had he had that before? It was wooden, carved of twisting vines like Halla-horns, which made sense with the carved halla-head at the top of the staff. ”It allowed you to reach me, but I would advise against it in the future. A mistake with that dagger could cost you your life, and the amplification of magic means spirits could be attracted to it and get pulled out into the real world. It is not wise.”

“Right.. Understood.” Rook sighed. “When we last spoke, you said you cannot reach me. Was that a then thing or an overall thing?”

“Right now, it is unclear.” Solas was being annoyingly sincere about it. “The Fade and the waking world are intertwined, but also pulled apart at certain points. Like a garment sewn together, there are those ever so slight spaces underneath the stitches. Except instead of a single seam it is a wide tapestry that I would have to trace every thread to find…”

“Right. So. You have no idea where I am in the Fade, so you can’t help me yet?” Rook clarified.

”Essentially.” Solas confirmed. “However, with the Blood magic connection, and my life being tied to the veil… I should be able to find you. If you are able to be pulled through a rift, whether created by my Lyrium dagger or one that occurred from the Breach… I can bring you back.”

“How does… that even work? Time travel? It definitely relies on the breach but…”

“I am not certain. In the real world, things are more solid, factual. Time occurs linearly and is perceived naturally by mortals, it is a normal phenomena that has become a fact of life… part of the reason that the quickening came to the blood of elves. Cut off from the intense magic of the Fade, they began to age. Time marches on towards unknown destinations from an unknown starting point. In the Fade, there is time, but it is heavily influenced by that perception of time that people have. And in the way that the Fade is tied to the real world… Time happens all at once.” Solas gestured with an arm, watching Rook. There was something in his eyes, the color seemed lighter, and Solas was even smiling a  bit as he explained. It wasn’t out of malice, he just seemed… to enjoy talking about it all.

“All at once?” Rook asked. “If it is, how come it’s so hard to time travel, then?”

“It’s as if time is folded in on itself, layer by later, but each layer dips into the other depending on where you are in the fade. The fade still occupies space in some way. It’s why you ended up in Southern Thedas— the world moves, depending on time, so to appear at a different time means you're dropped in a new place. Or perhaps you simply fell out of a rift, it’s unclear.” Solas shrugged.

“Helpful..” Rook sighed. “So—“ Rook gasped, the sand starting to shift, their feet sinking in.

“You’re waking up. We must be quick.” Solas looked around. “

“Enough talking about magical theory, then. So, time is weird and.. and stuff,” Rook started. Solas gave a bit of a flat look.

“And stuff, of course.”

Rook rolled their eyes. “So, it will uh, take time, to find me. And even after that, you’d have to find a way to pull me through the fade, is what I’m getting?”

“Succinctly put, yes. I have also had my own obligations. The Blight is made, still shifting, twisting, evading my efforts to sooth it as if it wishes to be angry.” Solas sounded a bit exasperated… and Rook couldn’t help but feel a bit vindicated.

“Doesn’t seem to want to change, does it?”  Rook teased, then continued, “So..?”

“I will get to you as soon as possible. Until then you continue to lay low. Perhaps, since you are in the time of the inquisition… You could speak with those who even discovered the theory of time travel in the first place. They might aid you.”

“Understood.. are you— could you get a message, to Neve? To my team..? Somehow, so they know I’m alive!” Rook didn’t mean for the desperate edge to their words, but they couldn’t help it.

Solas let out a small breath. “I can try.”

“Thank you.” Rook sighed. They might have said more but the sand lurched, throwing them to the ground, where the sand finally became violent, coarse against their skin, dragging them under while the world above started to swing back and forth again.

***

Rook opened their eyes. There was a weight pressing down on their chest, their shoulders, and a distinct, sharp ache running over their skin. Wind whistled and whipped snowflakes through the air outside the cabin they were laying in. They could hear it and see it through a nearby window as they slowly turned their head. They were laying on a cot, temporary, definitely meant to be with the temporary hospital that had been set up in Haven. They’d been given nicer accommodations with this—- they weren’t sure why.

They groaned, and the noise alerted the others in the cabin. It was Apothecary Adan’s cabin. There were desks and tables lined with papers, books and bottles, mortars and pestles full of powders and ground herbs that Rook could smell in the air. Elfroot and embrium, mostly. 

“You’re awake,” Adan made his way over. “Good. You're a competent healer, it would be a waste to lose you.”

“Adan… thank you,” Rook found their voice after a moment. They felt the urge to sit up but didn’t dare do so. There was sure to be a reckoning with their injuries. The weight on them was bandages and wrapped up blocks of ice, keeping the burns cool. 

“Don’t mention it. You’ve been asleep for two days— Heard you took on a hit from a pride demon, head on. Competent healer but apparently stupid in a fight…”

“I take a direct route,” Rook said casually. “It wasn’t on purpose. Varric would have been killed if he took a hit like that.”

“You could have been killed by taking a hit like that.” Adan frowned, beard twitching with the movement.

“But I wasn’t.” Rook smiled. Adan rolled his eyes, going over to one of his work tables.

“Right. Well, you’re stuck here for a little while. I want you healed more before you try using magic on it, the burns were severe and the electricity could have caused damage to your internal organs— your heart stopped twice on the way down the mountain.”

“Shit…” Rook gasped a little. That had been close… 

“Yeah..”

“Well— anyway, what happened in the battle? The demon, it was killed? What about the breach?” Rook asked.

“The demon was defeated, and the herald of Andraste sealed the rift, but not the breach. Now he’s unconscious, too. Again.” Adan picked up a satchel, swinging it over his shoulder. “So, I’m going to check on him. You’d better stay in that cot.”

“Yessir.” Rook nodded, laying their head back on their pillow. “I’ll keep watch on the cabin.”

Adan made an unamused sound, and Rook heard the door closing behind him. They wiggled on their cot, looking down at their chest and abdomen. There were thick bandages obscuring most of the damage but… they had a feeling their tattoos had been quite damaged. How it hadn’t happened already was a shock, anyway.

This left Rook alone. Laying in a cot, twelve years in the past. They’d just almost died, again, and that was like a cherry on top of the cake made of bullshit that had been their life for the past three years. 

Rook was trapped. This time they didn’t have the remnants of their mentor (ghost or manifestation of regret or something else, they had no idea.) to get them out of this. Solas didn’t even know if he could get them back to their own time. Rook’s eyes began to burn and they turned their head towards the wall, taking in a shaky breath. The pain all over their chest was real. This was real. And it was insane. And their chest ached and it wasn’t a heart attack, no, they wanted to go home.

But home wasn’t even gone, it didn’t exist yet. 

“Maker, this can’t be happening.” Rook whispered to themself, with tears caught in their eyelashes and their nose starting to be blocked. Sobs caught like fire in their chest, their throat burning, injuries aching. They put an arm over their eyes, tears hot against their skin.  Nothing could ever be simple for them, had ever been simple. Try to stop cultists from keeping and butchering slaves, and they got charged as a criminal. Try to track down an elven god with Varric, who came to be a friend, a mentor, and then release Blighted gods, and lose that friend. Try to kill an eldritch horror, and an archedemon, and trade the lives of hundreds of Grey Wardens only to fail. Finally kill that elven goddess, and lose another friend. Harding would know what to do, or would be there, would be compassionate and strong, protective. Whatever it takes, she said, and it took everything. They had given everything. Then, when they expected it to be over, to be able to actually have a peaceful life, to have something to keep… this. 

The Venatori, time magic, and Rook’s chronically bad luck. Or perhaps they had done something to deserve this, they couldn’t be certain. 

Something in Rook’s chest ached and it wasn’t their injuries. It was something deeper rooted, locked around their spine and sternum. Like an infection or maybe a rot, an abscess formed of stress and pain and unfelt grief that hadn’t hurt for some time, but did again. They had carried it for a year, facing down gods and armies of the corrupt with little backup and little faith from everyone around them. (The gods knew little of faith— it was a tool, nothing more. Another weapon against the weak.)

Rook let their arm go slack, one last sob retching out of them. They’d muffled their crying as much as they could, and hoped anyone who did hear would simply assume that they were in pain from their injuries. They lay on their cot, aching, exhausted. Maybe they’d lay there until Solas found a solution to their predicament. Leave the problem solving to someone else for once, the weight for shoulders that were not their own. They had carried enough.

Rook sniffled, rubbing the remnants of tears from their eyes just as the door opened. Solas stepped through, looking in, tentative and hesitant. Perhaps the last face Rook wanted to see, especially through the blur of tears.

“Rook?” Solas spoke gently, making his way over. “Are you alright? I heard… You are greatly injured. I came to see if you needed the pain soothed.”

Kindness? And Solas seeking them out? They weren’t sure what to make of the gesture.

“I’m fine.” Rook forced themself upright, finally. The world tilted and lurched and they dug their fingers into the blankets on the cot as they grit their teeth.

“I see.” Solas studied them, eyes careful, inquisitive. They widened and narrowed as Solas looked Rook up and down, taking in the bandages and their bloodshot eyes. Rook went to move the ice that had been on them, setting it aside before casting a thin film of frost over their bandages to replace their function. “Are you certain?”

Rook laughed, and their throat stung. “No.”

Solas tilted his head. He moved carefully closer. The way he carried himself was so different to the way he had been during the final battle. He was more relaxed, not pin-straight with his shoulders back, he moved with more natural, easy movements, instead of the practiced fluidity of a god showing off his power in the face of the Blight. He was pretending rather well, leaning on his staff casually, the one display of power he made— He was a mage, not an old man or someone with a simple hiking stick, no. It was a staff, and he could wield it, and was dangerous still without it. A wolf bearing its teeth or pinning its ears in warning.

“I wasn’t crying because of my injuries,” Rook finally admitted. “I just… I was overwhelmed.”

“The world is a chaotic place, at the moment.” Solas nodded sagely. Rook shook their head.

“No. I mean— yes, the world is a mess, I just… I’m in a rather difficult place right now. I.. I can’t explain.” Rook sighed, leaning forward and looking at the floor. Solas wasn’t wearing proper shoes— how did he get away with that, in the extreme cold?

“You live in an uncertain time for yourself. You have clearly gone through some harsh trials in life, I am sorry. And now the world is in danger and ruins and you are far from home.” Solas observed, pulling one of the chairs from Adan’s desk and sitting. His movement now seemed more purposeful as he watched Rook, eyes flicking like he was following invisible lines.

“Yes.. I…” Rook sighed. “I have no real way home. I wasn’t meant to come here— It was an accident.” As they spoke, their words felt sour, wrong. It was the truth. But it lacked the details, the context. Not quite a lie, not quite the truth, and it tasted like honey made from poisonous flowers. They couldn’t stand it— They didn’t want to speak more about it. “What about you..? You came here by choice, to help the— Lavellan. You must have left a home behind, people to miss..?”

Solas let out a small laugh, and it was almost pleasant. “No. I am a traveler, a wanderer who never stays in one place for long. I have many friends but they too, travel. I can find them if I need, there is no reason for me to miss them, nor for them to miss me.”

“Oh,” Rook said softly. They studies Solas, rubbing one of their eyes again. Solas wasn’t looking at them anymore. Instead he studied the paintings on the walls, appraising the structure and the brushstrokes— A fine layer of dust covered the painting, it was there for decoration but it was forgotten, it was not loved.

“I should go. But I am nearby if you need, I will hear it if you call.” Solas stood, pulling his eyes away from the painting. “Heal well, Rook.”

“I.. thank you, Solas.” Their voice came out smaller and softer than they meant for it to, but Solas didn’t comment. He nodded politely and left the cabin, shutting the door tight to avoid letting in anymore cold air. 

They laid back down (their wounds throbbed) and let out a slow sigh. They were going to be stuck for a while. They were going to have to lie— and it wasn’t like Rook couldn’t lie, or pretend, but that didn’t mean they had to like it, or that it came easy.

No, it was not easy at all.

Rook closed their eyes, not sleeping, but resting at least. 

Even if they had been planning to sleep, the door to the cabin opened again. Perhaps Adan returning. They were hoping for it, because they really felt like being left alone. 

No such luck.

“Rook?” Varric stepped over to their cot. His brows were creased together and he wore a worried frown when Rook opened their eyes. They sat up again, quicker this time than before.

“Varric! I’m glad to see you’re alright!” They were more than glad— Relief was hitting them hard, hard enough that some tears formed in their eyes. They blinked them away quickly. Varric smiled at their reaction.

“Believe me, I’m glad too. You took a pretty hard hit for me. Chuckles told me you were awake.” Varric looked to the door. Solas must have gone to get the dwarf. Why?

“Didn’t take Solas as one to gossip, but yes, I’m definitely awake. Hopefully I’ll be back on my feet again soon.”

“Don’t rush for it. There’s plenty of people taking care of things right now, anyway. The breach isn’t spitting out demons every five minutes anymore, either.” Varric shrugged. Bianca moved on his back.

Rook thought about the shattered remains of Bianca in the lighthouse. Even after the gods were dead and peace was returning to Thedas, they never had the heart to move it. They’d taken to carrying one of the crossbow bolts, though. The same one carried by Harding for some time as well, and maybe it was bad luck, but it had been held by both of them. It meant something. 

They thought about Varric’s coat, too, folded on the cot in the lighthouse. It had been there the whole time, and they hadn’t known. They had been so relieved when they woke up after the ritual, Varric only injured. Then the rug got ripped out from under them. A vision? A mirage. A blood magic wolf in sheep’s clothing (or, in ugly pajamas in this case.)

They realized they’d been staring into space, and hadn’t responded to Varric. His look of concern was growing, but before he could acknowledge the abnormally long pause, Rook nodded.

“I’ll try, but that’s never really been my style.” Rook shrugged.

“It’s good to branch out… Besides, the Herald of Andraste hasn’t woken up yet. Most of the town is busy rebuilding and fortifying, with the soldiers clearing the rest of the valley of demons… Something is definitely brewing. The safer bet is probably keeping away from it. These kinds of things… tend to end in tragedy.” 

And didn’t Rook know that all too well. 

“I’m still waiting for my luck to turn.” Rook responded. Varric had a look on his face, hard to read but likely knowing.

“The thing about luck is that it’s probably some sick joke from the Maker.” Varric gave an easy smile. Collected, relaxed, but there was a cutting edge of concern written all over his face— too calm, finding humor too easily. Familiar in so many ways, even without the grey hair, easy jokes about his age, and the lines and scars of battles both won and lost, stories told and those best left forgotten. (Even though Varric had a habit of immortalizing his greatest mistakes— in the way that Rook had learned to read between the lines of his stories for the truth, instead of what actually came out of Varric’s mouth or from his pen.)

“Maker can joke all He wants as long as I don’t have to go to his side just yet.” 

“You believe in the maker? Seems like it’s up in the air for some people, right now.. I’d turn to my ancestors but they’re bad at gambling.” 

“In some sense, I think I do.” It was something they’d had to grapple with the moment the truth about the Blight, ancient elves, and more had been revealed. “But I don’t think it’s as clear cut as either Chantry makes it out to be.”

“I can understand that. The chant was said to be passed from the Maker, but if it wasn’t written by his hand…” Varric trailed off, humming thoughtfully.

“If what they’re saying about Lavellan is true, maybe we’ll find out.” Rook shrugged.

“You’ve been unconscious, how did you hear about that?”

“I’ve been awake most of the day. Adan called Lavellan the herald of Andraste, I put two and two together.”

Still another half truth, the two and two had been remembering who Adan was talking about. The herald of Andraste part was very mixed up in Tevinter— some clung to the moniker, proof that Andraste was real and powerful, bound to the maker in a way that the Tevinter chantry refused to acknowledge. Others thought the title preposterous; a piece of southern propaganda signaling plans from Fereldan and Orlais to attack and try to take over Tevinter in a holy war, an exalted March. So when someone said Herald of Andraste, Rook didn't immediately think of Lavellan. Mostly, people just called Lavellan the inquisitor. Prior to him having that power, there was little news except for the breach and a brewing threat. 

All of this gathered from what Rook had seen while playing on the streets of Minrathous, or snooping in their father’s desk (they were after sweets but they’d take secrets and gossip, too.)

“So you’re an observant one, then?” Varric studied them. He was still trying to figure them out, gears working in his head. What was their angle, their story? The secrets they were obviously keeping, from their name to their tattoos, to their magic and occasional stutter and hesitation. 

“Only sometimes.” Rook hummed noncommittally. “Other times… Takes a hard knock to the head to figure it out, Yknow?”

“I don’t. But I’ve met your type before. Something’s familiar about you, but I can’t quite place it.” Varric’s eyes were trained on them, sharp, appraising but not in the same condescending way that Solas did. No, Varric had the gaze of a marksman, of an author, reading Rook but this time turning up empty-handed. He looked away, out the window to see that people were gathering, whispering on the path towards the chantry. “Looks like our intrepid hero has woken up.. I’ll leave you to rest— and hey, thank you. You saved my life up there.”

If only they’d been able to do it before, when it counted.

“Anytime, Varric.” They wanted to choke on those words. They would choke on them.

Varric nodded politely, and left the cabin.

Alone again, Rook decided they did want some sleep.

***

Rook was bedridden for another two days. A lot happened in those two days. The inquisition was declared, most people in Haven joining in some capacity– Not just soldiers, scouts, but the merchants in town, pilgrims whose faith was shaken, wash-maids and cooks and more. Rook remembered Harding talking about it– There had been a pastry chef, she mentioned. And Falker and Rector– Wilbur and Katja. Rook wondered if they had joined already or if they would later down the line. Their dreams had twisted with visions of Harding, memories and imagination blurring into a mind-slurry that had them waking up in fits of tears and disorientation.

Rook knew it would have to be some time– Leliana’s birds could only fly so far so fast. The inquisition was barely in its infancy, people still banding together, trying to make sense of everything that had happened.The injured and the dead were numerous, and Haven wasn’t nearly fortified enough. 

All they could do was lay there and rest. And it was… Probably the most irritating thing they’d ever had to deal with. Even once they’d gotten enough healing magic to sit up, it hadn’t helped much. 

They were growing bored, though. 

Rook sat up, looking at their arms, now lined with more scars that twisted over the ink, distorting it. They weren’t sure they could be repaired without a lot of magic to smooth the scars… They had carried the designs for years, they couldn’t imagine themself with blank skin, but this was different than the tattoos just being gone. They were… Different. Unrecognizable in some places, even if they knew and remembered exactly what the design had been before. The snake coiled up their arm, design broken up, head warped by lightning marks. 

The door opened, Adan coming through with a crate full of bottles, scrolls of papers and dried herbs. He kicked the door shut behind him, grumbling under his breath. 

“Inquisition now, huh? Better mean they’ll start getting me actual supplies… ugh.” Adan set down the box in his arms heavily, bottles rattling with the movement.

“Hey, Adan.” Rook greeted absent-mindedly, still looking at their ruined tattoos. Maybe it was fitting, they thought. Three and a half years of adventuring non-stop, at dealing with things out to get them. Their mind had been ruined, split by grief and blood magic both, at least now it was more obvious by the thick ropes of scars. 

“Rook, good to see you upright.” Adan nodded. “My least annoying patient at the moment.”

“I dunno if anyone’s ever described me as ‘least annoying’ before… So I’ll take it.” Rook gave a lopsided grin, grabbing the blanket on their cot and wrapping it over their shoulders to cover themself.

“You stay on rest when I say, don’t complain much when I give you a potion that frankly tastes like druffalo dung, and you helped me with healing while the valley was at its worst… so, definitely someone I can tolerate.”

“Glowing compliments, truly.” Rook smiled. Slowly, ever so slowly and carefully, they went to stand up. It hurt, and they were sore, but it wasn’t as bad as they thought— They also grabbed their staff to lean on it. Adan was already pouring over whatever notes he’d brought in. “So, what did you bring in?”

“Notes on an improved canavaris potion– elfroot. Meant to soothe a cough more than a wound. I won’t have illness spreading in Haven. Except, I don’t have nearly enough elfroot, and there’s a reagent I’ve been trying to find. I bet there’s some of it wherever Master Taigen’s notes are but… I haven’t been able to find them.” Adan sighed. “We don’t have enough supplies, let alone manpower. I’m the only master alchemist here. Everyone else is.. Still learning. And either way, we’d be spread thin.”
“I know a bit of alchemy, I can help here and there,” Rook offered. 

“Really?” Adan looked at them. “I mean, you obviously know the basics of medicinal alchemy, what certain potions do, but making them is a… delicate art many don’t bother with.”

“I know a bit,” Rook repeated. “I had– have, a close friend who does a lot of alchemy as a hobby. He’s a professor, he’s good at what he does… Anyway, he has taught me a bit, beyond what I learned already. I could help. And if you agree that I’m back on my feet enough, I could poke around for Master Taigen’s notes?” 

“I… I won’t turn down the help. Just don’t get in the way, then. And… As for being back on your feet, take it slow. You’re walking a little bit but the cold will make your injuries ache at this stage. Don’t wander too far– In fact, if you must go out, I can’t stop you, but don’t go alone if you leave the walls of Haven in case you collapse.” Adan crossed his arms.

“I pinky-promise, I won’t die the second I leave this cabin. Or if I do, the snow will be a soft landing.” Rook held up their pinky finger and smiled. Adan rolled his eyes, but went about organizing the things he’d brought. 

“When you do, stop by Threnn’s tent. She’s the requisitions officer, she’ll know who to go to about getting someplace set up to live when you’re fully recovered. Will free up the cot you’re in now.” 

“Yessir, Adan, sir,” Rook continued to smile, to be jovial. They had been down in the dumps for a few days, and Adan knew they were… delicate, but also being so upbeat around someone so grumpy was amusing for some reason. The reactions could be pretty priceless, the sarcasm and eyerolls a bit familiar. It didn’t sting as much with Adan because he just seemed like he was grumpy because he was tired. With Tarquin, it had, but that was one thing Rook didn’t necessarily miss so much.

Adan waved them off and Rook went to get proper robes on before going out into the cold. The first step outside was bracing, cold air biting. It was refreshing, but only briefly, making them shiver a little. It was good to see Haven in a calmer state, not overrun by terrified people, moving and whispering. There were still people lingering around, but there wasn’t the ominous atmosphere of people terrified of a threat outside, no the casual conversation was far more relaxed. The breach loomed overhead. Rook felt the energy at their back, could almost hear the crackling and see the reflections and green light against the snow and glassy ice that covered everything. They continued towards the path, the ground lined with rows and lines of footsteps in the snow. 

The cold made them want to go back and lay down, their injuries starting to ache. Rook knew they couldn’t, though. They couldn’t sleep anymore. Their dreams had become twisted, a pendulum back and forth of all the fears and worries and grief running through their mind. Their boots sank into the snow and at least it was real,not the swirling dunes of sand that they’d been dreaming about. 

“Rook, you’re up!” Lavellan had been walking along the path towards Adan’s cabin.

“Cyrith, it’s good to see you.” Rook smiled, glad to see the inquisitor. He looked so different in the path, younger but also less tired, holding himself more upright.

“And you, Rook. I’m sorry I didn’t stop by… Varric told me you were up, but it’s been a crazy few days.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard, don’t worry about it. I’ve just been keeping Adan company, mostly.” Rook joked slightly. Lavellan’s face seemed to light up.

“Speaking of Adan, I’ve been meaning to talk to him. There’s a few different people working for the inquisition I’ve been getting to.. I wanted to see how I could help out.” Lavellan explained. 

“Oh, yeah? I’ve actually gone out to see if I could find some notes Adan was looking for, from a Master Taigen. I have a feeling they’re outside of town, if they aren’t in the chantry or something else.. You could join me? Adan says I can’t go outside of town while I’m injured, in case I collapse.”

“That’s perfect, actually. We’re waiting on a lot of news and such to come in, so I’ve basically just been going around town helping out and trying to find things to do after closing some rifts on the outskirts. Actually… I saw a cabin outside of town a ways when I was looking for rams to hunt for leather. Maybe that’s a good place to start?” Lavellan turned, starting to walk. Rook followed behind, trying to keep pace despite having to move a certain way to avoid more pain flaring.

“Sounds good to me.. It is good that you’re alright, too. I heard you were unconscious again after closing the big rift.” 

The two walked along, conversing easily as they made their way to the gates. 

“Yeah, it took a lot out of me. I passed out for about a day, but I’ve recovered. You took longer than I did, but it’s good that you’re recovering. You saved Varric’s life. He was worrying about you, when I spoke to him. Said situation was bad enough, not knowing if someone who had done that for him was okay…” Lavellan trailed off.

“I’d do it again.” Rook stated firmly after a beat of silence. “If I had to. If I had the chance to save– to save a life, I’d do it again.”

“You’re a good person, Rook..” Lavellan smiled. “It’s good to see that. There are a lot of good people here, a lot of people who are doing their best to help… I guess I have my part to play, but it’s just the mark.”

“Yeah, but you can do other things. You can help in a way no one else can but that doesn’t mean you don’t already have skills… you were sent to the conclave, after all.” 

 They’d been spectacularly bad at helping people in the past, but it had been worth it to try. It had been worth laying low with criminal charges after freeing Venatori slaves, it had been worth it to be injured after saving Varric from the Pride demon. (But he would have survived, wouldn’t he?) They’d had a choice, at the start, though. They’d decided to go with Varric. Lavellan… didn’t necessarily have that same luxury, forced by the circumstances to join the inquisition, to lead and to defeat Corypheus. Rook had just been cleaning up their own mess, the things they’d caused by interrupting the ritual with such a reckless plan.

“I.. Yeah. I have to get word to my clan.” Lavellan frowned, eyes looking weary, and that was a much more familiar look to see on the older elf’s face. (Actually, was he older now? Rook wasn’t sure.)

“Do you think they’re okay? There have to be rifts all over Thedas now, right?” Rook asked.

“They’re good at hiding, and our keeper is skilled in magic. I’m sure that it’s okay. That I can go back to them once all of this is over.” Lavellan looked at the mark, then up at the cabin now before them. “This is the place. I hadn’t gone in before.”
“Is it locked?” Rook asked, even though they were about to reach out and test that. They pushed on the door, and it swung open on creaky hinges. They were hit by warm air and a musty smell immediately, something like dried herbs and damp paper. “Oh.”

“That works out, then.” Lavellan stepped through, glancing around. “Looks abandoned…”

“Something might be here, though.” Rook followed Lavellan and began poking around the cabin. It was quaint, empty but it could be comfortable with enough love given to it. Could they have had this? A quaint home, a comfortable life with Neve? No. They’d have found trouble (or the other way around), neither of them able to sit still, neither of them able to relax. That was the fun of it, though, always moving, always changing, but they’d have had each other through it all, through whatever life they’d try to build with and for one another. Did they still have the chance to do that?

“Back to earlier..” Lavellan asked, going to examine a painting on the wall before moving on. “Do you have… someone to write back to? A family waiting up north? Cassandra mentioned you’re Tevinter…”

“I.. I have people waiting,” Rook answered, voice shaking a little. “I can’t reach them right now. But they’re there, they’re waiting for me. I know it.” they have to be. They must be.
“I.. I hope you can reach them soon.” Lavellan struggled for a response, and seemed relieved to move on once they found piles of notes on a desk in the side room of the cabin, the pages curled like wilting leaves. Rook was glad to let the matter drop.

“These look like the notes– Seems to be something about Lyrium potions? This could help us mages out… come on, let’s get them back to Adan.” 

“Sounds good. Can’t believe it was that easy.” Lavellan laughed.

“Just don’t say that in the field, or there’s guaranteed to be some new demon that will show up to challenge that.” Rook laughed. Maybe, for the time they spent stuck, they’d be okay. No one was going to suspect that they were a time traveler right off the bat, at least. 

The makings of a plan was in the back of their mind, but only the barest whispers. Plans hadn’t quite been their strongsuit ever, after all. That was probably what got them into this mess. 

( “Keep the team safe for me.” Who was keeping Rook safe? They were part of the team, right?)

Rook gripped their staff, bringing the gathered notes with, glad to be able to lay down again after.

Chapter Text

Neve’s eyes were stinging, dark bags ringing her eyes. Her notes were blurring in front of her. She could have had them memorized by now but focus was escaping her, replaced with worry and exhaustion, but she couldn’t lose momentum.

 It had been ten days since Rook had gone missing. Ten days and she had poured herself into her notes, magical studies and theory. She had barely returned to the lighthouse; she’d been in Minrathous. In and out of the Shadow dragon hideout, the Archon’s palace to discuss time magic with Dorian– He didn’t have much time for meetings, but he was making time. He felt some amount of responsibility for the situation. They’d been working off research he had helped with, after all. 

Ten days. Neve leaned back in her chair, fingers stained with ink, leg tapping, the air a bit foggy from her pipe that had constantly been running. The one luxury she’d allowed herself, and only because it had been keeping her fingers steadier. Her stomach grumbled but she ignored it to turn a page in the book to the side of most of her notes, a copy of Dorian’s thesis on the properties of time manipulation magic and its applications in a post-breach world. She was educated in runes, glyphs and even a little magic that could slow time, making it a glacial place for a handful of moments— but much of it was beyond her. At least in her current state.

The door to her room creaked open. Bellara stepped through, a satchel at her side.

“Neve..?” She spoke softly, shyly. “Are you still awake?”

It was the middle of the night— or maybe not, maybe later in the day? Neve rubbed her eyes and squinted at the window. It was hard to tell if the glow between the curtains was from neon bright magic making signage for businesses and streets in Minrathous, or from the sun. 

“Yes,” Neve answered, belatedly as Bellara was already standing in front of her desk, looking with wide and worried eyes.

“You haven’t slept.. Please, Neve… You can’t keep pushing yourself like this.” Bellara frowned and it broke Neve’s heart, but…

“I can’t… I just, I can’t… They’re out there, they have to be out there and I can’t.. can’t stop looking.” Neve ran her hands through her hair, all let down and half tangled. She’d showered at some point, making herself barely presentable to see Dorian, but… When she was at home, she was falling apart. Bellara had held her when she cried, Emmrich had organized and sent for the necessary books and notes to fuel her frenzied research of time magic. There had to be some way to undo it, and she had to be able to find it.

“I know but.. this isn’t helping you— it isn’t helping Rook for you to push yourself! You’re not even forgetting to eat or sleep like I do, your— Neve,” Bellara groaned, rocking back on her heels and shaking out her hands. “Please. I’m worried too but we all need to keep our heads clear.”

“I can’t! Bellara, you— You have to understand! When you found out your brother was alive, you tried so hard to get him back! You wouldn’t just give up, even temporarily. Rook is— I love them, they can’t be gone, not again!” Neve stood, ice creeping over her desk as she placed her hands on it. “ Not again. We were— I… I don’t ask for much. I pushed away love for so long but I finally had it and it was finally going okay and I—“ 

She choked, making a sound like a wounded animal pinned in a snare. 

Bellara walked around the desk, going and pulling Neve into a hug.

“I know. I know… But… They’ll come back. And when they do, they wouldn’t want to see you like this. Get some sleep, look at the notes with a clear head tomorrow. Emmrich and I will be here..” Bellara ran her hands over Neve’s back, fingers pressing in, soothing and gentle. Neve made another sound, something of a sob before she nodded.

“Okay… but we have to get them back.”

“We will. We did before, right?” Bellara let Neve pull away when she was ready. Neve left her desk, deciding to take a long shower and wash away the filth and grime of a long day with notes and magical diagrams. She was still hungry when she fell into bed but the exhaustion claimed her soon enough.

The world flipped and twisted around her soon after she fell asleep. Loud bells rang and clanged, gears grinned and clicked and spun around each other like one of Bellara’s strange contraptions (or maybe Varric’s crossbow, the world quieter without Bianca and Varric in it.)

She stood on a narrow strip that kept moving incrementally in a circle, jolting sometimes and moving with a loud chk, chk, chk beat that started to blend into the background amidst the clockwork cacophony.

Then gold chains started dropping from the ceiling, or pendulums swinging back and forth, the ends of them falling into beat, glowing bright and forming a figure. Arms and legs swinging into place, a torso matching the right tempo and then the last, a head becoming clearer and clearer with eyes and ears and—

Neve recoiled but tried to contain her reaction; the platform beneath her was narrow and flimsy and it was a very long way down beneath her.

“ Solas?” Her voice echoed, a break in the steady beat of time around her. Her first instinct was confusion, but there was anger beneath that, bubbling, sharp and prickly in her chest. As an ice mage it was strange to feel fire but that’s the feeling cast over her as she saw Solas. She hadn’t known how to feel when Rook let Solas redeem himself, let him bind himself to the veil– peacefully– and leave to sooth the Blight. Solas had killed Varric, had killed others, had done so many horrific things, and to let him go… Neve couldn’t help but feel a bit complicated about it. The possibility of the Blight being dealt with, however, had swayed her from arguing about it. 

“Neve Gallus, My apologies for invading your dreams. I would not do so were it not so urgent.” His voice was different from hers in this space, moving more in time, more in beat than hers, a part of the dreamscape and not pushing against the grain.

“Why are you here, why would— Is it Rook?” Neve eased forward, prosthetic leg clicking. 

“ Indeed,” Solas answered with a nod. Relief flooded through Neve but she had to stop it, had to be realistic against the flow. “ They are alive, I have seen them through the Fade, and some… rather crafty spellwork they managed.”

“Where are they? Are they okay?” It was instinctual, ask questions, find out what happened. She tried to keep a cool head but this was Rook, they were missing, and it had been her fault. 

( Dragging Varric’s body for a mile, maybe more, through Arlathan forest, demons dogging every step, his blood warm on her hands but she couldn’t let go, she couldn’t just leave him. He was a good man, he hadn’t deserved that.)

“That is a complicated matter. It is less where and more when. From what I gathered, the venatori ritual Rook interrupted was semi-successful… Rook was sent back in time. Twelve years ago, to be precise. They appeared in southern Thedas, right when the breach opened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. They have my dagger and used it to reach me, in addition to the blood magic still lingering between us– I have not used it since the prison, but the fact that there was a connection allowed them to reach me more easily. And my blood lingering in the dagger, in the veil…” Solas sighed. “I am doing what I can but I have been occupied in the Fade, dealing with the Blight and other matters… But I told them I would reach you.”

Neve’s mouth hung open. How was she supposed to respond? But… Rook was alive. They were alive. She hadn’t killed them, there was a way to get them back, somehow, but…

“Was Rook alone? There were venatori involved in the ritual, I don’t know how many… I, what if some of them..? Oh, Maker…” 

“ I sensed other anomalies but I was certain they were simply the Breach but… Yes it is possible, likely even, that some of the venatori were also sent back alongside Rook. Those venatori are likely working to put their plans in motion… I told Rook not to get involved much with things at the time, that it might be fragile, but if that is the case then perhaps they have no choice…” Solas sighed. “ Keep an eye on history, Neve Gallus. Times are… apparently going to be changing soon, I should think.”

Neve felt sick to her stomach. “So… Rook was sent back to the breach, with venatori out for blood, and… Is Rook with the inquisition? With the past version of you– There could be danger from more than the venatori.”

“ That is true. Rook is resourceful, however, and while I was with the inquisition I did not do anything out of the ordinary for the role which I was playing. There were eyes everywhere and I had barely more power than a regular mortal.”

Neve frowned deeply. Like she was supposed to trust that? Right. 

A gong sounded, drowning out the rest of the clockwork sounds, splitting Neve’s ears and sending her off balance. The image of Solas before her started to disintegrate. 

”The Venatori have split time, Neve Gallus. But do not give up hope on Rook. You know they wouldn’t if it were you.”

Neve pitched over the edge of the clock-hand she was standing on, falling into the darkness below. 

***

Ten days passed since Rook fell out into the snow in a time that wasn’t their own. Then eleven, twelve, two weeks, two and a half. They stayed around Haven, running errands for Adan, caring for the injured, killing demons or gathering supplies as needed. The inquisition was slowly becoming more established, news coming in, pilgrims wishing to join. They had new armor, they had organization. They had sent word to Mother Giselle in the Hinterlands, but whether word had come back yet, Rook wasn’t sure. 

They were walking through Haven, leaning on their staff because they were used to it and not because they needed to anymore, their injuries mostly healed except for the fresh scars. They climbed up some of the stairs into the main square of the town, a solid brick wall supporting the next terrace layer of Haven. There were tents set up before them and some small fire pits. Varric was standing in front of one, holding his hands out to warm them. He looked up when Rook approached.

“Have you seen the Herald today?” Varric asked. “He’s getting the others ready for a trip to the Hinterlands.”

“I was out by the bridge, I haven't seen him yet.” Rook went by the fire, glad for the warmth. Most of their magic was ice based, but they were still used to the heat and humidity of Tevinter and the north. Haven was cold, and dry. It was full of people but they all kind of sifted past Rook, like they didn’t stick. 

“He’ll be around soon, probably. How are you holding up?” Varric watched Rook closely, intently, that sharp-shooter gaze was back again. Varric’s need to care and coddle, keeping the people around him close (He’d named them after a chess piece but they weren’t so easily tossed aside, not a pawn like Solas had thought they were up until they proved him wrong. He’d named them after a chess piece but because he trusted them, he trusted them to get the job done. Trusted them to protect, to defeat their enemies head on. He had done it but at what cost? What did that make Varric; Rook never knew.)

“It’s uh… Been something,” Rook shrugged their shoulders. “But I think I’ll make it.”

“Good to hear. You seem a reliable sort… Still trying to think of that nickname, though.” Varric smiled. It was strange to see him so young, Rook realized. No balding forming a severe widow’s peak, not so many scars and he even had his earrings in. Time and stress had worn at this Varric but it wasn’t as deep-set, running him ragged. 

“I still don’t need one. Think being called Rook is simple enough.” 

Varric gave them an incredulous look but didn’t respond, instead shifting his focus as Lavellan approached.

“Handy, good for you to come around. Sit by the fire for a minute?” Varric asked, holding his hands out to catch the warmth again.

“Not at the moment, Varric, we’re heading out soon to the hinterlands. It’ll be a long trek… Rook, you should come along. Could use more backup if the word is true about how the mages and templars are fighting.”

“I’ll get my stuff,” Rook agreed. Maybe it was best to stay in Haven, to not stray so far from the place they had appeared in time… But, they also knew that eventually they would be running into Dorian. He would be the one to ask about time magic if Solas couldn’t find a solution (or wasn’t willing to, with his hands full dealing with the Blight.)

“Back on the job.” Varric smiled. “Guess I’ll meet you at the gates.”

***

Traveling without an Eluvian was a humbling experience. Haven was located close to the frostbacks, bitterly cold and plagued with snow. Rook knew this from the time they’d spent there, but trying to travel very far from well-trod paths that people had time to clear and frankly excavate out from under ice and snow was a daunting task. The road disappeared after some miles, the snow built up even despite the droves of mages and templars that had traveled to the valley beneath the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The horses they had weren’t very adequate, used to plowing fields and not pulling carts with inquisition scouts and supplies meant to last the journey and help them establish camps in the Hinterlands. They were hardy creatures, though, so they could at least withstand the freezing temperatures. 

They weren’t into the warmer tundra yet, but Rook was desperate for a reprieve. Their feet ached and they had to sniffle far too often to clear their nose as it ran from the cold. The others weren’t doing much better, the only two of them who seemed unbothered by the elements being Cassandra and Lavellan. Cassandra because she was already stone cold, maybe, or she felt it and just had the constitution to not really show it. Lavellan was affected by the cold but clearly used to traveling in dismal conditions, so pushed ahead with little complaint or struggle. 

“Can’t you mages.. Use magic to warm things up a bit?” Said Varric, used to more tropical and even desert-like conditions in Kirkwall. Fereldan was treated as a frozen, wet wasteland by the Free Marches, and the other nations farther to the north. Rook had overheard Varric make a comment about the south, that it was the “Ass end of Thedas” and being appalled that they ate snails in the south. (Rook certainly didn’t enjoy the idea of eating a snail– they were slimy, but in a cute way!)

“It would require a constant feed of mana and concentration to keep everyone warm like that… It could be done if things were more dire,” Solas panted as he explained to Varric, using his staff to climb over a mound of snow. “But we may face threats on the road that we should be conserving our energy for.”

“What in the Maker’s frozen ass would be out here ?” Varric groaned, but he knew full well that there were all manner of demons and creatures that could be lurking in the distant snow.

“We’ll be out of the worst of it soon,” Cassandra called back to them from ahead. “We’re almost out of the steeper mountains.”

Rook really did miss Tevinter. They missed traveling with the Eluvians, being able to avoid the cold except in the deeper parts of the Crossroads near the eluvians that went to the Anderfels. The cold was bitter, more than just uncomfortable, the ice made it harder to push away thoughts of Neve. Weaving spells and charms of ice, easily and beautifully. The cold for them was a blunter instrument, something harsh and powerful, forceful winds and waves of ice, but Neve played ice magic like an instrument. She’d crafted an enchanted statuette for Rook out of ice, ice that would never melt because of the magic woven into it. It was in their room back at the lighthouse, unmelting, unmoved by time. They’d fidget with it when they were stressed and Neve wasn’t there, a companion for the past two years, they’d run their fingers over the cool surface of it and found it relaxing. 

“What’s the plan for when we actually get to the hinterlands?” Lavellan called over a sudden, harsh gust of wind.

“And please tell me it involves making camp and resting..” Rook groaned.

“When we get there, we’ll meet the inquisition scouts stationed there already!” Cassandra explained. “We need to speak to Mother Gisselle as soon as possible after that. If we encounter any rifts along the way, we should close them!”

Easier said than done, with Lavellan’s magic hand or not. Rook didn’t look forward to fighting more demons, or just generally being in constant peril. If they died before getting back home… They didn’t want to think about it. 

“With all the trouble to get there, hopefully we can stay for a while.. Do some good,” Rook sighed, but wasn’t sure how many of the others heard them. It didn’t matter much, it was a long road ahead.

***

The hinterlands were green. Green and brown, with red-clay cliffs and quaint little farms here and there. A number of them had looked abandoned, and there were clear signs of mages and templars fighting along the roads. Bodies and scorch marks, twisted spires of ice and the buzzing aftermath of strong magic pressed against Rook’s skin as they crossed the road. Inquisition banners were visible, poised on the crest of a rocky hill. There were soldiers and scouts and a scattering of tents. Rook was relieved to be in a warmer climate, there was still a chill in the air but it could be worse. The group was moving at the same pace again, Lavellan and Cassandra chatting ahead of Solas, Varric, and Rook. Rook was standing between them… And so was trying very much to keep their eyes fixed ahead. 

They finished coming up the path, squished into an inlet surrounded by a copse of trees and a few tents. Rook felt the fade stir in the distance, mages and templars fighting below, and they probably had been for hours. They didn’t focus on it, couldn’t as a familiar but different figure appeared again. It was such a fresh wound, no blood magic had altered their mind and dulled the blade of loss with confusion and disorientation. They had been there, they had seen it , seen her sacrifice herself, her screams echoing off the walls of Rook’s memory. They were stock still, stiff as the dead when Scout Lace Harding sauntered up to the group, holding her bow and smiling bright as the sun. 

“The herald of Andraste! I’ve heard the stories– Everyone has,” She laughed awkwardly, softly between her words. Rook’s stomach twisted with nausea but they couldn’t step away and they couldn’t react. They felt eyes on them, Solas glancing at Rook as they shifted their weight to their other foot. They couldn’t tell if his gaze lingered because they couldn’t take their eyes off of Harding– Lace. Maybe he was watching them, picking them apart again, curious about the way the fade rippled around their magic like a curious entity. Harding continued, “We know what you did at the breach… It’s odd that a Dalish elf would care about what happens to anyone else–” 

Rook felt the apprehension fill the air when Lavellan tilted their head. But no one interrupted. “But you’ll get no back-talk here; that’s a promise. Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service! I- All of us here, will do whatever we can to help.”

Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. 

“ Harding, huh?” Varric broke Rook’s thoughts but it made the blow sharper, harder. They thought they were used to Varric. It was the past, it was before everything happened and everything was lost. It was worse. “Have you ever been to Kirkwall’s hightown?”

Solas had told them, told them time was fragile and they shouldn’t change anything in case it shattered reality. What if he was wrong? They were already there, what could they chance? Their head felt fuzzy. The conversation in front of them grew far away, muffled and distant underneath their turning thoughts. Maybe it was already different. Maybe it was enough and they could risk it, urge Varric to run, tell Harding to stay in Ferelden, maker, anything, kill Solas in this time while he was weak to avoid the ritual, crumbling prison be damned, morals be damned, whatever it took maybe they could just— Just try to save all that they’d lost. 

Harding wasn’t in front of them anymore when Rook was startled out of their thoughts by a hand on their shoulder. 

“Rook?” Solas’s hand rested on their shoulder and he looked at them, head tilted and eyes searching for a response. “Are you alright?” 

Varric was there too, watching, puzzling them out. Even Cassandra looked worried, or more perturbed by how they’d been standing there for… However long. Lavellan’s hand glowed faintly, reacting to the veil, it might have stung but he tucked his hand behind himself and stepped forward towards Rook.

“You were just.. Standing there for a minute,” Lavellan explained, “After Scout Harding went to talk to the others and send a message to Leliana you just… Are you..” Lavellan trailed off.

“I’m fine.” There was pressure in their throat, ears warm, this feeling felt foreign, the others… worrying? “I just… zoned out a bit.”

“Are you certain? You can stay at camp if you’re not feeling well?” Lavellan suggested.

“I’m fine,” they repeated, trying to sound confident in that. “Don’t worry.”

“Right..” Lavellan didn’t seem to believe them. “Well.. Harding said Mother Giselle is down further in the valley, but there will be Templars and Mages to fight. They’re hostile to anyone who tries to get in the middle of their fighting… So we need to be ready.”

“Okay. I’m fine to go, what are we waiting for?” Rook took a step, trying to ignore the sort of tremor, ache, burn, that they felt in their chest. 

Lavellan gave Rook an odd look, but turned, and went down the path. It was calm at first. There were stirrings in the Fade on the edge of Rook’s periphery, echoes of melodies, song and dance from spellcraft but all of it was discordant. The way the spells played off belied the real, deadly training of the mages casting them, but they were made desperately, hastily in self defense. They were trained to cast spells but not to fight, instead their skills had been turned into the tooth and claw of a desperate, wild animal breaking out of captivity, not the honed and sharp blade many circle mages thought themselves to be. 

“Should we be worried that the templars will use their abilities on us?” Rook asked Lavellan, pulling their staff from their back to have it at the ready. 

“That’s… Possibly, yes.” Lavellan stopped for a moment, seeming to process and think about that. 

“They will be exhausted, they have been fighting mages for hours and probably have limited amounts of lyrium. If they have any at all.” Cassandra kept walking, drawing her blade. The further they went, the more carnage became clear on the road. More thick spires of ice, some splattered with gore. Bodies laying on the side of the path, fresh, red blood pooling and splashed across them from gaping wounds. Some bodies were crushed by massive, unnatural rocks and others half consumed by ice or unrecognizable because they had been burnt to a crisp. 

“So they could be lyrium addled, which is dangerous for another kind of reason…” Rook sighed. “Great.” 

At least fighting would get them moving, get their blood pumping, and it would be very difficult to focus on the grief, and the exhaustion, and the yawning, gaping everything that loomed over their shoulders when they thought about their situation. Logically… Everyone was going to live. Cassandra, Varric, Lavellan, even Solas, all made it out of the corrupted and tumultuous time in which the inquisition was established. They fought the battles and so Rook didn’t need to worry; could focus on watching their own back for once. (But they’d taken that hit from the Pride Demon for Varric, hadn’t they? They hadn’t been able to stop themself, even if it meant they’d die before making it back to Neve.)

When they reached the crossroads, the fight was clearly desperate. Mages throwing up barriers and throwing down fireballs on templars who attacked anyone in sight, sellswords fighting for the mages but not discriminating in their efforts against inquisition scouts. There were four inquisition scouts huddled behind crates that were crumbling more with every hit they took, and the scouts could pop out and fire arrows every so often but their quivers looked low and their armor wouldn’t be able to take that much punishment. 

“They need help!” Lavellan ran in, staff raised like a beacon. Just in time to cast a barrier and block the worst of the damage from a cone of cold, thick ice that a mage sent towards the scouts. It obliterated the crates but the scouts were unscathed. They looked up at Lavellan, starstruck as he moved, staff spinning in an arch and feet placed delicately in a weaving pattern as he charged. The ice melted and hissed into a massive cloud of steam as Lavellan sent forth a forceful wave of flame. Both burned, steam and fire, catching some of the mage's robes and turning them into pyres. 

“Use the steam as cover, come on!” Rook charged in after, leaping up onto a nearby rock and raining down ice spikes as the mages readied counter attacks. It felt wrong. They just wanted to live, they just wanted to be free. Rook was reminded of a time when they’d saved a group of slave gladiators from death, but the slaves didn’t know what to do with themselves. They’d been used for fighting, sex, entertainment, and they knew nothing else, knew nothing of how to be free. They had been afraid and at first, attacked Rook, not out of loyalty to any cruel master, just raw fear that they would lose the little choice that they had. It wasn’t wrong, but it had been terrifying to face. 

Rook hadn’t needed to kill them, thank the maker, but it had been a rather tense situation. This, though… There was so much power crackling in the air, storm and wind, the Mages would not relent for anything or anyone. Instead of just the templars, everyone was the enemy, everyone who had perpetuated their kidnappings, imprisonment, and the abuses that they suffered at the hands of the Templars. This was war now, the killing a byproduct, no gentle mercy, but wicked cruelty added to everything else the mage’s attacking them had suffered. 

Rook wished they would retreat. They cast a spell and rained down ice, turned the ground smooth with it to slip up their spell casting. Retreat , Rook urged in their mind as they slammed their staff down and used a wall of ice to block a sellsword’s blade. 

“Look at this! The mages have gone mad with power!” Cassandra called over the fray. Rook’s mouth tasted bitter, but there was no time for a debate.

“I see just as many templars!” Solas snapped back, spinning to blast a mage in the face with ice. It felt so reckless. He had waged a war against the gods, with distractions and manipulations, trickery and battleplans, but directly blasting someone in the face (point blank) with a spell felt far more explosive than Rook would have expected. Though, they had seen Solas casting massive, bomb-like spells in Minrathous, and fighting an Archedemon head on for hours… 

Retreat , Rook pleaded when Cassandra’s blade ran through another Mage’s robes, the cloth doing nothing against steel and strength. Maker, damnit, Retreat! Rook leapt to the side and onto proper ground as a plume of fire lashed its way past. They felt the heat on their skin and the air was gone for a moment. 

The mages were running. They were screaming to each other, the inquisition was too much. Cassandra’s blade, Varric’s crossbow bolts, and the spells of Rook, Solas, and Lavellan forcing them to give up ground, heading up the road at dead sprints, casting barriers to catch any spells that chased them. 

Rook leaned on their staff, heaving for breath, relieved. Bodies still littered the ground, but it could have been more. 

“Rook, eyes up! Templars on the way!” Varric shouted across the field, Bianca crackling and whirring to life. Rook wrenched themself up, putting their staff back on their back in favor for blade and orb. The templars hadn’t faced this magic before, and they wanted that edge. They remembered the Templar’s silence. A crushing moment of tranquility, like half an exhale of the Titan’s rage, their magic cut off like someone had bound their hands tight enough to go numb and gagged them. They wouldn’t risk that again. 

They had faced darkspawn and venatori magisters, massive Antaam reavers and blighted dragons, archdemons, and so-called-gods, and yet nothing terrified them more than that silence, that amputation. Some people thought magic was separate from a mage, a mere weapon placed in their hands by the Maker, a sixth-sense not necessary to their being. Maybe that was true for some mages, but not Rook. It was a part of them like their skin, a part of them like they couldn’t see, feel, hear, breath, without it. A fundamental piece of how they interacted with things, the whispers of the fade a constant background that let them know the world. 

The templars had shields and blades but Rook came in with a fury that they didn’t have towards the Mages. They rushed forward, blade raised and orb blazing with magic, blasting out ice to knock the first templar right off their feet. Lavellan came in from the side, weaving a magic circle with his staff and slamming it down. Lighting crackled and burned the air, the metal of the templar’s own armor turned against them. The two that Lavellan’s magic reached crashed to the ground. That left three more, one locking blades with Cassandra and the other two trying to turn their attention to the mage’s of the group. Varric’s crossbow bolt caught one in the eye. They were outnumbered, and frankly, weaker when magic entered the equation. Continuing the fight was a fool’s errand, but the Templars wouldn’t retreat. Righteous, angry, maybe prideful. One of the remaining templars charged at Lavellan, blade raised. Lavellan froze, eyes wide. He had enough time to use his staff to catch the blade, but he was at a disadvantage. He leaned back, nearly nose to nose with the Templar bearing down on him. He looked terrified, the blade sinking into the wood part of his staff. Magic crackled in his hands– Then died. The templar’s eyes glowing bright blue. Lavellan’s face paled, and it looked like his eyes were rolling back. 

But he would live. Varric or Solas or Cassandra would do something, a spell or a crossbow bolt– But Cassandra was facing another templar down, spitting blood with a face darkened by fury. Solas was with Varric, bent over his arm with green magic weaving through the air, healing some injury. Lavellan was going to live, right? 

Lavellan’s staff snapped and he tumbled to the ground. Rook lunged forward then, standing over top of him and parrying the Templar’s blade. As they did they summoned as much magical energy as they could and let it explode when their blade made contact, lighting filling the air and cooking the templar in his armor. He couldn’t even scream before it happened, body thrown back by all his muscles jerking and contracting. Steam and smoke rose from the armor, all the parts that weren’t now warped and melting metal were blackened and charred. Rook breathed hard, looking down at Lavellan.

They offered a hand. “Are you okay?” 

Color was returning to his face and he nodded slowly, taking Rook’s hand and standing up. “Yeah.. thanks.. I…” Lavellan sighed. “My staff..”

“Here,” Rook grabbed theirs, holding it out. “I have my orb and dagger, anyway.”

“Thanks..” Lavellan took it, slowly catching his breath. Cassandra made her way over, her own templar dealt with.

“Herald, are you okay?” Cassandra asked. “I’m sorry, we should have helped you sooner.”

“I’m alright, I promise. Might need to sleep for about twenty years but… It’s fine.” Lavellan stood up straighter. “It looks like the templars and the mages have both retreated… We should look for survivors of this town, and find Mother Giselle..”

“Someone should send for more scouts and soldiers. A presence here might keep the danger at bay.” Cassandra sheathed her sword properly. 

“I can do it… I’ll head up to camp.” Rook offered.

“You should not go alone.” Solas walked over, Varric at his side with Bianca collapsing into a more handleable rectangle. “I will go with you. Any people you find will likely be uneasy at seeing more mages here.” 

“Right.” Rook nodded. “Let’s be quick about it. Even if they’re uneasy about mages.. There will be some who haven’t joined the fighting. And we could help heal some of the injured.” 

Rook turned towards the path, taking deep breaths to calm themself before Solas was directly at their side. It was calmer now, the fade returning to normal, like water rushing into a reservoir once the dam had broken. 

“You’ve got a habit of saving others in fights, it seems.” Solas commented softly as they walked along. “It is admirable.”

“It’s the right thing to do… Usually pretty adrenaline fueled, though.” Rook shrugged a shoulder, casually, relaxed. It felt more like they were parroting what someone who was calm was like. They wondered how easy it was to see through, and if Solas would say anything. 

He didn’t. Maybe he just thought they were still relaxing after the fight, maybe he assumed they were intimidated, it didn’t seem to matter. 

“Good. The inquisition will need that. There are a lot of people who need protection now.” 

“Is that what you think?” Rook glanced over, the question an impulse that came more biting. They needed to soften it. “Like, why you’re here?”

“Yes.” Solas answered. Rook couldn’t really read his tone very well. “The chaos harms everyone. The breach must be closed, the source investigated.”

“Sure, but why not let everyone fend for themselves? Not that I think that’s right just…” Rook trailed off.

“Why would a lone, elven apostate choose to help people?” Solas finished, stopping on the path. “That seems a question you should ask yourself, no?”

“That’s… yeah, I suppose.” Rook cringed. 

“You don’t trust us,” Solas observed. 

“I don’t trust most anyone. Not that I mean to offend but… I’ve learned to be…” Rook shrugged their shoulders from side to side. “Suspicious.”

“It is good to be discerning about others.” Solas started walking again. “But perhaps not so much of the people fighting at your back.”

Says the one most likely to put a knife in it. Rook could have laughed. “You never know when there’s a wolf in your midst.” 

Solas didn’t respond, and Rook couldn’t really see his face to know his reaction. 

“You never answered my question,” Rook changed the subject. “Why not let people fend for themselves, protect yourself?”

“I could not stand idle. Many people are too weak to stand up for themselves. And the conflict between the templars and the mages has already shaken the world. It will continue to cause tremors in society until it is resolved. There will be deaths. Some people deserve peace.” 

Some people. 

Rook decided it was their turn to not respond. They were nearly at the camp, and talking any further to Solas… They decided it was dangerous. 

It was all dangerous. They were wading in a river of it up to their knees, as they had time and time again, and it was foaming with blood. They could never be clean of it.

Chapter Text

By the time that Rook and Solas returned to the rest of the group, the valley was full of refugees, a makeshift field-hospital had been set up between the remaining buildings. Inquisition soldiers worked together to remove the bodies of the templars and mages, careful to keep them away from the ponds and the small gardens of crops. The civilian bodies were put in separate areas. Rook saw grieving families, a son clinging to his father’s leg and crying loudly, a few other children with no parents to be seen, older couples curled into each other solemnly. They looked away, throat bobbing and eyes feeling watery. They couldn’t turn back time again and save those people, but they could keep helping the inquisition while they were stuck. 

“It’s a shame the toll that war has taken on these people.” Solas spoke as they headed towards where Cassandra and Varric were standing. Lavellan was walking down the stairs, a woman in chantry robes with dark skin and wrinkles lining her eyes watched as he went. 

“We need to put a stop to it. Someone has to.” Rook responded simply as they stopped walking. Lavellan nodded by way of greeting and looked at Cassandra. 

“She said we need to appeal to the clerics, and that she’ll send word of her own. It’s not much but it’s probably all we can hope for when we are able to go to Val Royeaux.” Lavellan explained. 

“It’s better than nothing. Word is being sent to Leliana?” Cassandra asked.

“Solas and I made sure,” Rook answered. 

“Good. We should help out how we can as well, while we’re here… Scout Harding mentioned we need horses– I’m inclined to agree. Said something about a horsemaster Dennet?” Lavellan started towards the path.

“Yeah, and no one has been able to reach him because of the fighting. Corporal Vale said the refugees are desperate, bandits are everywhere in addition to everything else, and now the rifts, a cult in the pass, it’s chaos. We need to bring some aid and peace to these people.” Cassandra followed alongside him.

“We start with the horses, so we can transport things faster– that means supplies for the refugees and our people out here.” Lavellan decided. “We can also see the scale and danger when we go look for Dennet and decide what threats we need to go after to protect people. Lavellan was already on the way up the road. “We should also ask around here for what people need. I already met a hunter who was asking about ram meat– people are starving.”

“I met a scout whittle mentioning supply caches the mages were hoarding,” Varric joined in on the conversation. “Seems worth looking into, if we have the time.”

“Let’s get moving, then. If everyone is ready? I know we’ve already had a hard fight today.” Lavellan looked to the other companions, and then Rook. Rook didn’t know why they felt surprised at that, and in general they felt almost… lost. Lavellan was good at making decisions, finding clarity in the situation: people needed help. He wanted to do the things that got them help the quickest, but without burning out their current supplies and energy. He was a natural leader. He had been impressive in the battle at Minrathous, but he was here too, even with such humble beginnings. 

Rook wondered (hoped, prayed) others felt a similar way when they were leading. They had been so worried about making the right choices, keeping everyone happy, keeping everyone safe when they were leading their friends and the other organizations in Northern Thedas against the evanuris. They didn’t think they were meant to be leading it, that it was Varric’s job and they had been thrust into it because he was hurt. Part of them was glad, because Varric needed to be safe, and he was exhausted and didn’t know how to win— Part of Rook had wanted to step up the whole time, and maybe Varric was betting on it. 

The group was making their way through the tunnel that led out of town. Sounds of fighting came in as they neared the exit. 

“Be ready– I hear fighting.” Cassandra drew her blade, the sound ringing in Rook’s ears. They went for their own weapon, taking up the back part of the group. Lavellan tested the weight of the new staff as he took up the front. As they exited the tunnel there was immediate danger, fields of grass and wicker fences burning, thatched roofs on houses caved in (also burning). The smell of smoke and lyrium and blood scorched their nose as they stepped out. The damp, humid smell of the tunnel had been preferable to the smell of the battlefield. 

Templars were fighting mages, spells and blades twisting in the air. Not a thing was staying still, and it would have been easy to get caught up in the haze of violence, fear, and adrenaline. The templars were upon them immediately, faces twisting and snarling, like dogs snapping at a snared rabbit. Rook cast spells reflexively this time, and went at their weak points with their blade. Their aim was true and sharp, training drilled into them from a young age, their father’s voice, harsh but deep down, worried they would be hurt. Be quicker than them, spes mea, be smarter than them, and they will fall. 

A templar’s blade slammed down on Cassandra’s shield and she let out a battle cry, becoming a wave against them. A hail of crossbow bolts and wicked spells from Lavellan, from Solas, weaving the fade into reality with their hands. They just kept coming, though. Templars and mages, fighting skirmishes all across the fields. They were trying to push through as best they could, gaining ground in a slow, exhaustive process. Rook fell into a rhythm, cast a spell, strike with a blade, block, shield, spell, strike, block, shield, again, again, but more raw, more real than running drills with their father. 

“This is getting us nowhere! We can’t keep fighting all of them, we have to keep going!” Cassandra called over the violence.

“They won’t see reason now!” Solas agreed. “We can’t retreat so we go forward as much as we can!” 

“Damnit!” Lavellan hissed, jamming his staff blade through the visor of a templar helmet and then yanking it out. “Come on, move!”

It wasn’t running, so much as it was clawing their way out of the battlefield, any who got in their way had to die quickly but as templars and mages came in on all sides, they were easily surrounded and their progress stilted at many points. They managed to make their way up to a destroyed bridge. There was a templar encampment there, tents and supplies littered. Some looked like they had been taken from travelers, a mish mash of different rations, containers, weapons and clothes all piled around the camp. 

“They– they killed– They killed people for this!” Lavellan realized, outraged as the templars who set up the camp began to emerge. Archers and swordsmen, jumping to violence immediately. They had not been prepared for Lavellan’s rage, as he raised his arms and called down fire from above. The tents caught and Rook watched as Lavellan rushed forward, the end of his staff blazing, his mark glowing bright green as he impaled a templar archer on his staff and yanked, tossing their body to the side and into a swordsman. As the two went down Lavellan pulled their staff out and twisted it, blasting fire at the two and setting them alight. The templars flailed and rolled, screaming but the flame was magical and would not go out. 

A templar was trying to come up behind him but Cassandra got there first, blocking the attack and bashing her shield into their throat. Rook stood beside Solas, mirroring his actions as he cast ice spells and froze the two archers who were panicking, trying to get shots off only for Varric to fire arrows into their shoulders. Rook and Solas moved in tandem, the fade rippling from the combined use of magic and the templars turned to a massive spire of ice rising from the ground like a bony finger. 

There was movement on the hill above, templars with swords and shields charging down with war-cries echoing through the air. Rook broke away from their spot with Solas, rushing towards the templars but cutting around them. Once behind them they let off a static charge of magic that blasted them face-first into the ground, shields clattering away. This let Cassandra stab one through with her sword, and Lavellan made short work of the other with his fire. 

The remains of the camp blazed with fire, and Rook’s could smell it and feel the heat all around, the sensation sometimes confused by a gust of chilly wind. They breathed hard and walked over to Lavellan.

“Are you okay?” Rook asked, voice soft.

“I’m fine. Better.” Lavellan looked at the wreckage around him. “This isn’t right. This shouldn’t be happening.”

“It shouldn’t.” Rook started towards the wrecked bridge. “You’ll help put an end to it. The inquisition will.” 

“You sound so certain of it,” Lavellan commented, joining Rook. There was enough bridge left to make it across, but it would need to be repaired later on. 

“I am.” Rook shrugged a shoulder, offering a hand to help Cassandra across the gap in the bridge. The added weight of her armor made the planks creak and they threatened to snap. She took their hand, muttering thanks. The group was safely across, and they continued up the hill. For the moment they traveled in silence, still catching their breaths from the last battle. They would need more time to rest after that one, but the side of the road was not a safe area to camp in the slightest. Lavellan led the way up the hill. Redcliffe farms came into view, sitting at the base of a mountain with red clay exposed between patches of green and thick roots jutting out. 

Trees swayed in a breeze, and it looked half abandoned. There was a large stable which looked intact, horses milling about in a pasture, but only one farmhouse looked fully intact. The others were dilapidated, abandoned, the fences outside rotting and the druffalo herds kept inside only because that was the area they were used to being in. The crops were still there but weeds grew wildly and there were crops of pumpkins extending past the fences and their usual fields, large orange fruits looking like they had been pecked at by birds and gnawed on by rabbits and fennec foxes. 

“Maker…” Varric gasped, taking in the place. There wasn’t a lot of time to comment further, as a group of wolves moved over the hill and into view. Six black, furry beasts, snapping and snarling, running and out for blood.

“Trouble!” Lavellan called, raising his staff. The wolve’s eyes were glowing eerily as they changed direction, shooting towards the group. Rook looked at them, and then Lavellan– It was as if they were being drawn to him. 

“The breach seems to have driven them mad!” Solas exclaimed. The wolves were there, snapping their jaws and trying to bite and claw at whatever they could get at. Varric was forced to scuttle back, firing off as many bolts as he could in a moment “Or perhaps a demon– a demon has taken control of the pack!” He used his staff to keep one wolf from biting him, teeth coming down on thick metal and forcing the wolf to jump back and gag. Rook cringed as every blow and defensive move was met with a whimper or a keen of pain, perhaps a brief moment of clarity for the fade-crazed wolves. 

Rook had to back up, they could only use spells to keep the wolves back. Their dagger wasn’t all that big and they couldn’t risk getting bit. 

Cassandra cried out as one managed to bite her arm as she was trying to get her blade out of the ribs of a now dead wolf. Varric’s crossbow bolts and Cassandra’s blade had managed to take down two of the wolves, each massive and taller than the average dwarf and even some elves and humans. Lavellan had set one on fire and it was running in desperate circles, but the flames kept growing. That left three more. The one latched onto Cassandra, jaws digging into armor and threatening to break through, the wolf bearing down on Rook, and the wolf Solas was facing. 

Rook wanted to help but had to turn to the threat in front of them. Gnashing teeth and incredible strength, they could respect the wolf, but surely there was nothing they could do against it. They slashed forward. The wolf balked for a moment but leapt forward with a fervor. Rook took the chance to dive down, slashing from below to impale the wolf. It let out a whimpering cry and Rook cringed again but drove their blade deep and pinned the wolf to the ground. Then they stood, whipping around to see Cassandra finishing off her own wolf, but Solas on the ground. Cassandra couldn’t get her blade out again, caught in the bone. Varric raised Bianca but she clicked and stuttered; out of ammo. Solas was barely holding out, the wolf’s claws tearing at his clothes, jaws wide. The weight was a lot, and Solas couldn’t focus enough to get a spell off. 

Had he ever feared for his life like this before? His eyes were wide and panicked, pain on the edge of them as he bled from fresh wounds. He had fought wars, some of them hopeless and long, but had he ever worried he would lose his life in them? Had he known death like that? In the cut-short, sudden way of a mortal? Rook stood, caught in the moment, watching Solas struggle. His staff lined with bite marks now as he used it as a last, desperate weapon against the wolf. 

Rook could let him die. Could let the wolf’s jaws come down on Solas’s neck. How ironic it might be, watching Solas choke on his blood and bleed out into the grass? Would the future still happen in the way that it did? Rook could save Varric, Harding, how many others, if they just… Let it happen. Just stood by, and watched the blood spill. 

Solas thrashed, kicking, teeth bared, like he was snarling back at the wolf, at the demon controlled creature trying to get at him. Did it know what Solas was, or was it just an animal? Did it know what it was about to kill, the kind of blood it would spill?

(The prison had been crumbling. The gods might have escaped on their own, and what then? Who would have fought that blight? The venatori, the Antaam, who would have saved Treviso, Lucanis? Would he have died beneath the sea or succumbed to being an abomination, a mindless demon for Zara to control? With Illario as first Talon and Antiva ruled by Venatori?) 

“I– Help!” Solas twisted, tilting his head back far to avoid teeth. It cut into Rook’s thoughts and they couldn’t stop from moving, pushing magic through their body, through the fade to launch them with incredible speed at the wolf. They slammed into it, burying their dagger into it with one arm, and the other the wolf tried to bite at, teeth digging in and drawing blood, snapping bone in its attempts to get Rook off. They had to move back. The wolf staggered to its feet, whimpering, blood dripping from its mouth. Its eyes were clear, if just for a moment. Rook watched it, blade held loosely. 

It didn’t want this. It hadn’t had a choice, until now, while it stared at Rook. Bloodied and tired, its other pack members were dead… Rook took a breath, reaching out with a wave of magic. Soothing but strong, a force imposed, will and wish, theirs and the wolf’s. Rest. Rook thought hard, extending their free hand, fingers twitching along the ringing notes of the fade, magic reached out like another arm at the wolf. It swayed. Sleep. A spell, crafted and woven, wrapped around the wolf’s mind like a net. It crumpled to the ground. Sleep. Rook pushed again, then stumbled back when they let go of that tether, and watched the wolf’s eyes drift shut and one ear twitch as it lost consciousness. 

“You–” Solas coughed, sitting up. Dirty paw prints, scratches, and bits of mud and blood were speckled all over him. “You didn’t kill it?” 

“It’s just a wolf..” Rook said softly, holding their broken and bleeding arm close. “Not an abomination, not a monster. Just a wolf. It was being controlled… Hopefully when it wakes, it won’t be. Or maybe..”

“If there’s a demon controlling wolves out there, we should hunt it down and kill it.” Lavellan went over and passed an elfroot potion to Rook.

“Agreed,” Rook murmured.

“Why not kill it? Even if it isn’t possessed, it might come after the farmers later.” Cassandra seemed confused.  

“It won’t. Not unless it's starving. And then it would be easier to drive off.” Rook drank the potion, and started to work healing magic on their arm to take care of infection before it could take root and mend the bones. “It’s just a wolf. I’m sorry we had to kill the others but…” Rook sighed, looking at the sleeping creature, its chest rising and falling slowly. Solas looked at it, head tilted. His breathing was heavy but he didn’t seem to be in too much pain. 

“It is good to have spared one..” Lavellan stepped over the wolf, starting towards the farm. “Wolves are.. Wise creatures. It is a shame these were twisted, but we can make sure to help save them. I’m sure the locals would appreciate it if we did.”

“I’m surprised you’d think that,” Solas commented, picking himself up from off the ground. “Most Dalish are… superstitious about wolves.”

“Some are. Some in my clan wouldn’t even speak about them.” Lavellan leaned on his staff as he walked. “But we respect them, even if we fear them or keep one eye open. Wolves are not far from dogs, they have the same blood. The same loyalty, if they are given a reason. My clan traveled near a wolf pack, once, and we formed a sort of relationship. We would leave the parts of our kills we couldn’t really use for much… In exchange they gave us space, or even sometimes helped us with a hunt. They’re smart things. They never hurt an elf in that forest.”

“Wolves think and feel and know their way through the world..” Rook spoke softly. “They have a nature to them, just as we do. Sometimes, they can’t help it. But I don’t know that it makes them evil, or worthy of suffering for something out of their control… They also understand mercy, I think. In a way sometimes people just… don’t.”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way..” Cassandra spoke quietly. 

“Do you think it is only wolves?” Solas asked. 

“No.. I think a lot of things are like that. Wolves, Halla, dragons...” Rook listed. “Cats. Cats are really smart– Kind of creepy, because it can be hard to tell the difference between them and a possessed one until they start speaking to you and trying to make some deals.” 

Cassandra stopped, giving Rook a bit of a wide eyed look. “A.. possessed cat? Are those a problem in Tevinter?”

“A lot of demons are a problem in Tevinter. It isn’t even the blood magic, it’s the suffering…” Rook shook their head. “But there’s a lot of stray cats, and they’re cute, liven the place up a little… Still, it is definitely easy to tell an animal that is being influenced or scared by a demon, from one that is being directly possessed. Another reason I didn’t kill that wolf. But we should maybe expect to see some possessed animals at some point.”

“I’ve heard tales of mages who shoved demons into the bodies of animals, to avoid becoming possessed themselves– it’s… cruel. Awful.” Lavellan sounded disgusted, stopping to look around again. “There’s a spot over there, across that water. Looks like a good spot to camp. We should stop— take care of our injuries better.”

“I’m inclined to agree..” Solas, still mending his wounds, looked down at his shredded outfit. 

“The water is shallow, right?” Rook asked, looking at the stirring surface. It danced with lily-pads and water plants, cattails moving in the breeze. Seeing it move and shift made their chest seize a bit, searching for the bottom immediately. They couldn’t swim. They’d never been able to, and by the time they were old enough to easily try, they were terrified of the water after several failed attempts to learn. It wasn’t fun, anyway, they could barely take baths some days. They hated the feeling of the water on their ears, sensitive and delicate as they were. Another reason to keep their hair short– they hated the feeling of it, too.

“Looks like it…” Lavellan went across, stepping on rocks poking out of the water to cross without getting terribly wet. When they’d gotten to the hinterlands, he’d changed his armor up, able to wear something more traditionally Dalish with his feet bare. Cassandra had seemed uncertain about it, but hadn’t wanted to push. Varric,though, was pretty unbothered. 

“Good.” Rook followed across, stepping carefully on the rocks and shallower parts of water. The other side had a large flat area, short grass and small trees swaying in the breeze. The group had packs with them, but would have to set up tents and a fire-pit. Already exhausted, it took some time to do. By the time camp was set up and a fire for food going, the sun was beginning to set over the mountains. Colder air rushed through the trees and the leaves. The group sat about the fire. The only food they’d been able to prepare was simple field rations. 

“Ugh, these could be better…” Varric sighed, gnawing on a dry part of the ration. 

“Probably finer food than what’s at your Hanged Man,” Cassandra commented back, not complaining about her own rations.

“It makes you miss a home-cooked meal, but at least it isn’t a ham-and-jam-slam.” Rook laughed a bit. 

“A… what?” Solas looked genuinely perplexed. He hadn’t had even a bite of his rations– He was weak, but did he even really need to eat, even now? Rook wasn’t sure. Either way, Solas had his food set to the side, and was mending his clothes, having replaced them with a spare outfit. It looked much the same as his other, and Rook genuinely wondered where the clothes had come from. He did look like a vagrant, but he had gotten himself clothes… So why not something that looked nicer? Rook was curious, but couldn’t ask without giving too much away. It was also easier to think about that than Harding. Their thoughts had drifted to her so easily. They had maybe even momentarily forgotten the time they were in, the fact that on their own, Harding was dead. It ached. But they didn’t want to remain silent for so long.

“A terrible food invented by … a close friend of mine,” Rook answered. “She.. she modified it, too, once, for someone else. He’s nevarran and doesn’t eat meat, so she changed the ham to yams. Which was… a much better version, I think.”

“You have friends all over,” Varric remarked. “But obviously with questionable taste in food!”

“I.. yeah,” Rook nodded. Their chest stung, burning just behind their sternum. Their mouth went dry and it wasn’t the rations. “She was.. She, uh, made a lot of interesting food. Some of it was good, thank the maker.” 

Varric was watching Rook, their face, their voice. They knew it was soft, full of grief, and they were trying to roll it back, but it wasn’t quite working. To their relief, Varric didn’t ask. Instead, he changed the subject.

“What’s a good food that you actually like? No crimes against cuisine.” Varric set his own food aside, sitting back and holding his hands over the fire as another gust of wind brought the cold. “... Wolf?” He tested the nickname, tilting his head. “Mm, no, not quite a ring to it in the same way. Damn.”

“Khachapuri, and fried fish,” Rook was quick to answer, moving on from the topic of the nickname as well, a smile brought to their face. Thoughts of visiting Halos’ stand with Neve, walking along the docks to collect papers, serials, leads and just some fresh air. Or Bellara and Neve, spending hours in the kitchen trying to improvise missing ingredients to at least make edible khachapuri. 

“We have something like that in Kirkwall. The cheese is less fancy and there’s different meat but it’s pretty good! Something left over from when the Imperium stretched down to the Free Marches, maybe.” Varric explained. 

“It’s interesting that it still remained in some way after the revolts there.. Maybe the slaves kept a lot of the traditional food, finally able to have it for themselves… Good.” 

“There are still slaves in Tevinter who do not have that luxury.” Solas scoffed a little, nose twitching as he scowled. “You speak about it so casually.”
“Slavery exists. It’s awful, it’s wrong. I know exactly what slaves suffer every day, I could have easily been in their places if things had gone another way for me. I do not speak about it casually, do not misunderstand my acknowledgement of its existence for acceptance.” Rook snapped, looking into Solas’s eyes. The burn of grief gave way to anger, anger at Tevinter, as always, the corruption and the difficulties, which still existed in their time despite the efforts against it. Then anger at Solas, who would doom so many of those slaves to death by demon or to watch their world burn, because he hadn’t yet been steered from his course. Still adamant in his ways, a stubborn wolf with his jaws locked around ideals but without his paws truly touching the ground. 

“It is simply good to remember. Memory unheeded…” Solas trailed off. 

Varric changed the subject again, quickly, “What about the rest of you? Seeker? Chuckles?”

“I don’t really have a favorite food.. I travel so often… I do like Orlesian Onion soup. Leliana had me try it, it was… nice.”

“Nice? That’s a high compliment from you, Seeker.” Varric laughed. “And you, Solas?”

“Orlais has many good foods, I agree with the Seeker on that… I find my appetite lacking, but they have some.. Small pastries, I enjoy,” Solas admitted. He set his clothes aside, now mended, and picked up his rations. He ate only a little, and Rook was left to wonder if it was still a pantomime, a trick for mortal eyes. Still, the admittance about food was.. Interesting. Did Solas have a sweet tooth? (Did spirits eat? Need to? So many questions, just about how life really worked, when everything else was laid to rest.)

“What about you, handy?” Varric finally turned to Lavellan, who was still eating quietly.

“At one of the Arlathvhens, a dalish clan who spends most of their time in Orlais made food for us– It had been a rough year, we’d barely been able to hunt and the grasses weren’t growing well in the Marches, some of our Halla were too sick to be milked…” Lavellan sighed. “Anyway, long story short, the clan made us this deep dish, it had halla cheese, peppers, elfroot, garlic, a lot of things, I don’t know all of it, but it was good !” 

“That sounds divine, right about now,” Rook groaned, finishing the last of their rations. “I’d even try a cold Grey Warden pastry pocket, and some of those are not good…” 

“Maybe when we know we’re going to spend more time traveling and there aren’t swarms of demons, templars, and bandits, I can try and hunt for something to eat.” Lavellan suggested. “It would be… A process, because I was trained more in magic than hunting, but I think it can work.”

“Bianca… wasn’t built for hunting, but I could help.”

“We have the rations for now, we may as well use them.” Solas interjected. “As… tasteless and dry as they are. Perhaps if the inquisition gains more supporters, there will be cooks among them.”

“Will we really get that big?” Lavellan paused.
“We will need all the allies we can get. There could be armies of demons out there, with the rifts.” Cassandra looked into the fire, golden light dancing off of her dark armor. “And with the mage-templar war, there could be battles. We just don’t know yet.”

“The breach and other conflicts threaten to shake the world. If we are to bring change, we must match their size…” Solas nodded sagely.

“Yeah.. I guess, I just hadn't realized how many people…” Lavellan went silent, looking out past the fire, towards one of the empty farmhouses. Wolves howled in the distance, deep bellows echoing between the mountains, but the sound was twisted and strange. The moon full but green light reflected from the breach– how that worked, Rook wasn’t sure, but it was eerie. 

“We should all rest.” Rook stood up, food unfinished but their appetite gone. “We’ll have a long day tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah… Goodnight, everyone.” Lavellan stood as well, and went to his tent. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk to Horsemaster Dennet, and see what we can do about the wolves, and the breach up the road…”

“Goodnight.” Cassandra responded, nodding as she listened. There were other bits of chatter as the night waxed on, but Rook went to their tent, desperately wanting to drop off into sleep for a long, long while. 

***

Rook knew Fereldan was full of strong-willed people. Harding’s resolve had proven that much. Still, when they traveled up to the rift near Dennet’s farm the next day alongside the others, they were shocked. The other farmers had fled in the face of the danger, but not Dennet and his family. The rift was so close, demons could easily go over and attack, but they’d held their ground. Either knowing the demons wouldn’t wander far from their rift for a while, or confident enough that they could fight it off. Rook wasn’t sure what had brought it on, but either way, it was impressive. The rift wasn’t as massive as the ones close to the breach, but it was sizable. It burst and twisted with strange magic, offering brief glimpses into the Fade. Old magic that they felt ripple over their skin. 

“Prepare yourselves, I can feel strong magic on the other side. There are demons there, and they’ve grown powerful on the fear bleeding in from the hinterlands.” Solas held his staff close, glancing around cautiously. A wolf with its hackles raised, the scent of blood in the air.

“We got a full night’s rest. We’re ready.” Lavellan had his own staff. Rook wasn’t so sure— Their own sleep had been fitful, and when they’d gotten up for a short walk, they knew they heard tossing and turning from Lavellan’s tent. Bad dreams, maybe from the mark, maybe something else. It wasn’t exactly clear. 

Still, if Lavellan was tired, or afraid, he wasn’t really showing it. No, he went up to the rift easily, throwing out a hand and making the connection. A tether of powerful, crackling magic that made the rift burst, demons glimmering into existence. The fight was immediate, a circle of wraiths bearing down on them. They had fade-bolts that weakened those who they struck, but the wraiths were still incredibly weak creatures. They seemed to be reflecting the magic of the breach, made of green, solid energy instead of robes and nerve-like structures like Rook usually saw them as. It was.. Weird, but demons and spirits rarely kept to one form. It just wasn’t in their nature. 

Rook spun and shot out a hand, calling static energy to their palm, which it released as they willed it to. The beam of lightning that shot from it connected with one, two, three, four of the wraiths, and they melted down into hissing, bubbling puddles of green goo. It was efficient to hit more than one at once, and safer to the others if Rook kept to those kinds of spells. They had already displayed more than enough of their power. 

Lavellan kept near the rift, warding off demons with his staff and spells. Occasionally, Cassandra jumped in, guarding Lavellan each time he made an attempt to close the rift. Sometimes when he connected to it, the magic crumbled, backfiring on the demons that had come through. They screeched and lurched, creatures in pain, but also in rage. Twisting and writhing against reality as they fought the group. 

By the time the rift snapped closed, they were a bit tired, and sweaty. Lavellan sank to the ground slowly, leaning on his staff and panting heavily. He held his hand, fingers twitching, the mark crackling for a moment before it settled down.

“Does it hurt?” Rook asked, walking over. Lavellan simply nodded, trying to take a deeper breath.

“Only a bit,” lavellan finally said, after the others gave their own concerned looks. “When I use it, it’s like… Like a current, pulling me, connecting me to something so massive, I can’t see it or think about it but I know that I’m touching it. That there’s something else there , but whatever it is… I don’t know. It’s like the veil is alive . Then I pull away, and it still aches. Pins and needles all over my fingers…” 

“Maybe it’s the Maker.” Cassandra suggested, sheathing her sword. She held out a hand to Lavellan, and he took it, pulled to his feet. It took a moment for him to steady himself. 

“It was just a metaphor.” A softer, gentler way for Lavellan to say that he didn’t really believe in the maker, much less that his mark was granted by Andraste. Rook decided not to comment either way. He wasn't sure what to make of it– They were a hero, in some sense. Except, they’d been hired, and then they’d fucked up. They had a responsibility to save the world, an obligation because of their own actions, because of Solas, because of Varric. Having a mark, and having no clue where that power had come from, was something entirely different. Maybe Rook could have walked away, gone back to their life on the run from the law (Freeing those slaves might have counted as theft,and stealing slaves meant death, so the law would always be on their heels.) Lavellan, though? He was bound. Whether he knew it or not, he was tied to the elven gods, tied to Solas, with no knowledge of it. Tied to the veil in a strange (and dangerous) way. 

It made Rook a little nauseous to imagine being in that position. 

Cassandra didn’t say anything about Lavellan’s words, either.

“With the rift taken care of, we should speak to Dennet. See about the horses, and maybe if they know anything about the wolves?” Solas asked. 

“Good idea.” Lavellan agreed, starting towards the farm. “It looks like there’s a few people around… How about you all look around? See what other things need doing. I don’t want to overwhelm anyone…” 

“It’s a good idea. I’ll send word to the members of the inquisition about our camp here.” Cassandra decided. “Varric, you should go with Lavellan.”

“Will do, Seeker.” Varric agreed, collapsing Bianca down. 

“I’d like to investigate the site of the rift, now that it is peaceful and we have time. Perhaps you would join me, Rook?” Solas suggested. 

“I can, sure.” Rook said, while desperately trying to keep their cool. Ending up going with solas was one thing, but being asked to stay? Why? They couldn’t protest, they didn’t want it to look strange. To the others, there was little reason to be hostile or suspicious of Solas, at least for Rook. If only they knew. If only. 

The others split off, going to complete their separate tasks. This left Solas and Rook. they stood by the remains of the rift. The veil felt a bit stronger, reinforced now that Lavellan had sealed it. Rook wondered for a moment if the mark could be recreated somehow, made to fit on an object that could be used as a tool to reinforce the veil or repair it without as much risk… 

They looked around, the sludge left by the demons was melting slowly into the grounds, twisting and viney corpses of the terror demons beginning to take root and to change, acclimating to the real world in some way. 

“So… what are we looking for?” Rook asked, looking at Solas.

“Nothing. There is very little to be gleaned here.” Solas stated.

“What? Then why–” Rook’s stomach dropped, panic welling immediately. What was this about? What was happening?

“I don’t need to investigate the rift. It is you I am curious about, Rook… Tell me,” Solas took a step towards Rook, his robe swaying in the breeze. “I feel the touch of blood magic upon you, a connection that has been used. I am surprised the Seeker has not noticed this.”

“I– What? What do you mean?” 

Shit, shit, shit. How could he see? Is that was Solas was trying to discern, with the glances and staring that seemed to be picking them apart. How could he sense it? It had been so long, and… Maker.

“You seem to detest blood magic– surprising because of your background, but I sense it upon you. Someone has done blood magic on you. Either you are being controlled or there is some other thing at play. So tell me, Rook, who has done blood magic upon you? And why are you here, with the Inquisition?” 

“Same as everyone. The chaos is dangerous, something has to be done, I can’t stand by.” Rook said firmly.

Solas did not seem satisfied. “You are evading my question, Rook. If that is even your name– It seems an alias. Cassandra’s intent is clear– She believes in the Maker, she believes Lavellan is an agent of her god’s will. She will follow him and she will do as she is dictated by her moral code. Varric feels guilty about the events of Kirkwall, and he is here, so he will help. There is a story and he will follow it. I am here because I have special knowledge in the Fade, I am the only one who can help with that in perhaps all of Thedas. But you? You are an unknown element. An elven mage from Tevinter, and you speak of your past but never in full, and you have blood magic on you. I do not detest blood magic in the same way as others– trite superstition, it is a tool as many others, but it is a dangerous tool, and with so many things about you unknown, I would know of you: “ Solas spoke deliberately, calmly. His gaze was sharp, pinning Rook down, following invisible lines once again, lingering maybe on the Lyrium dagger at their side. Rook wasn’t sure, it could be their own paranoia at play there, because they had wrapped fabric over most of it. “Who are you, Rook, and what is your purpose here?” 

Chapter Text

“Who are you, Rook? And what is your purpose here?” Solas’s tone was dark, serious. His eyes boring into Rook, that swimming middle-ground between blue and violet, pupils pin-pricks in the bright sun. 

Rook clenched their fist at their side tightly, looking back at Solas. At his casual stance, leaning against his staff, despite his stern expression and eyes locked forward. Rook took a deep breath, trying to calm their pounding heart. 

“I am an elven mage from Tevinter. I am not in favor of Slavery. Against it, actually.” Rook started, grinding their molars slightly as they paused and took a breath. “The south is cruel to its mages. It imprisons them, it uses religious doctrine to justify the caging of people like animals, and then it puts people motivated to hate them, to fear them, in charge of keeping them in line. Dangerous people trained with blades and a dangerous, addicting, magical substance. I avoided the south because of this. Even Tevinter was preferable to that. But then I heard of the rebellion, the conclave, the hope that maybe mages could be free. They were fighting for it, they were ready . Then the divine called for the Conclave. It was supposed to fix things, yeah? But it was the divine, and no matter her sympathies, she sat by, long enough to allow so many people to get hurt. I could have waited to see the outcome,  but I had to leave Tevinter. I freed a lot of slaves in the hands of cruel masters, and such a thing is often met with an execution. So I had to leave, and I probably had to go south. So I decided, I would help the mages here. I would help the rebellion, speak at the conclave, tell them about the dangers of free magic… and the beauty, the gain to be had, the difference..” Rook sighed. “Then the sky blew up. And I can’t get home. I can’t… I can’t go back. Or make things better on my own.”

“And the blood magic?” Solas asked. Rook made a frustrated sound, shaking their head.

“You just love to press into things, don’t you?” They were cornered. Like the sinking, stomach-pulling feeling they’d felt when they’d been trapped in the fade prison. At least this didn’t seem anywhere near as dire. 

“I want to know. It is not wise to keep such secrets, in time like these.” 

Oh and you’re one to talk? Rook wanted to snap. Instead, they sighed. “Tevinter is dangerous. A powerful mage took some of my blood, used it to reach me in my dreams, to influence me. But never controlled me, and even now the link is still there. But I wasn’t willing, and I don’t want to talk about it. So drop it, please. I know it’s hard to trust people right now, but have I given you any other, solid reason, to not trust me?”

“You have not.” Solas conceded. “I apologize. This was unworthy of me. We should… return to the rest of the group.”

“Yeah.” Rook huffed a bit. “Come on. I’ll go find the I– The herald.” Rook started walking, fist clenched tight, and heart still racing. “And.. Solas, please don’t.. Don’t tell Cassandra about the blood magic. I promise, it’s not a danger. I won’t become an abomination. Just… Yeah.”

“I will not tell her, don’t worry. If you require help with some kind of ward, however, I would be able to render that aid.”

“It won’t be necessary.” How different would things have gone if Rook had accepted Neve’s offer of a ward, way back when? They could have failed sooner, without Solas’s help, but they would have known of Varric’s death. Perhaps the grief would have crushed them and the world would be left by the wayside. 

Rook chose not to dwell on it. Instead they went back towards the farm. Lavellan was leaving Dennet’s house, walking down the path. When he saw Rook approach, he sped up to go meet them.

“Rook, did you two find anything out about the rift?” Lavellan asked.

“No, not much, sadly. Maybe with more time or some arcane tools. But, what matters most is closing them.” Rook lied, not going to tell Lavellan about their chat with Solas. (Should they warn him? Tell him the truth, warn him what was coming, about the knife raised to his back? Was it wrong to leave it..?)

“Ah, well… We’ll see what we can do with that.” Lavellan shrugged one of his shoulders, looking around.

“How’d things go with Dennet?” Rook asked, after an awkward beat of silence.

“Good? I think. Dennet says it isn’t safe to send the inquisition horses, but he would if he could. If we take care of the problems in the area… So, more errands to run. We need to take care of the wolf problem, and Dennet’s son wants us to build watch-towers. They’ll protect the farm, but also the refugees in the area… He’s also loaning me a Ferelden forder, but I.. admit, I’ve never ridden a horse. I can’t imagine it works the same as a Halla.”

“It’s a bit different, yeah.” Rook laughed and it felt like a thousand-pounds of pressure lifting from their shoulders, all the air rushing out at once. “I’m sure you’ll pick it up quickly, though… Having a horse will be useful.”

“Yeah…” Lavellan sighed. He looked a bit deflated, circles a little clearer under his eyes, posture not so straight as Rook expected. Maybe still tired from fighting the demons, or… something else. “Rook, how do you deal with… being around so many people? So many… Humans. Or people from another country? Not that I… dislike it, but…”

“It’s lonely,” Rook answered once Lavellan fell silent. “It’s lonely, and scary, sometimes. So many people speaking a language you don’t know, or making judgements based on stereotypes and prejudice, instead of who you are as a person. Being called a knife ear, or rabbit, it hurts, but it… doesn’t as much, when it’s just strangers. They don’t know me, they don’t know what I’m like, and they’re certainly not going to take the time to do it..”

“Right, but what about people who… aren’t like that?” Lavellen looked over. “I volunteered. To go to the conclave, I mean. I mean– My clan had enough mages, I wanted them protected, I wanted other Dalish mages to be protected, and elves in the Alienage who could protect their people instead of being feared by them– But… I also wanted to see the world. To meet people, to see.. If it was as bad as some others in my clan thought, if the shems– humans, were really.. So bad.”

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Rook asked, continuing to walk by Lavellan’ side. “When I first… first came to Minrathous, I had this vision in my head of what it would be like. A sparkling city, with opportunity, a chance for change, for.. Something.” Rook sighed. “But really? It was terrifying. I was alone. It was cold, empty despite the massive amounts of people. So many lives happening all at once, all next to each-other. Like, some kind of parallel lines, and only a few intersections… But as time went on, I found more friends. More people, all different, who were willing to see me. There are people who will call you a knife ear or assume you’re a slave or lesser than, but others who don’t think about that, or used to but have done the work to stop, to change… Those people are worth it. They make up the world, alongside the others. You meet them, and then you’re not alone anymore. Finding… your anchors.” 

“And you have those? People back home, waiting for you?” Lavellan stopped, turning to face Rook properly.

“I… yeah, I do.” They nodded. “And I will get back to them.” They looked at the sky. “I promised, I’d always come back.”

Lavellan was quiet for a moment. When Rook looked back down from the sky, Lavellan had turned again.

“ Ma nuvas vir’vena arla, Lethallen.” Lavellan said softly. “I hope you find the path home.”

“Ma serannas. ” Rook smiled, the elven words a comfort. They had studied it a little in their youth, seeking a connection, but years later they had learned so much more from Bellara. Rook hoped she was okay– Hoped she could find a way to get them back. If anyone could, Bellara was the one. 

Lavellan was quiet again, then looked up at Rook once more. “Do you think they’re okay? My clan. Your friends… Are they okay, without us?”

“I’m sure they’re worried. But I think they’re still okay. They’re safe.” Rook tried to be reassuring, but had their own doubts. Neve had rushed in alone against all those venatori after they’d fallen, the ritual had backfired, so who knows how she was doing. Bellara and Emmrich had been helping to free those slaves but… Damnit, they wished they’d invited Taash, or Davrin, even Lucanis, or– Right. Harding was gone. Rook cringed, but wiped the expression away quickly, before Lavellan could notice. At least, they hoped Lavellan hadn’t noticed.

“We haven’t heard from my clan yet– Leliana sent word, but… Nothing yet.” Lavellan’s voice was shaky. “The inquisition… It’s a human organization. At least for now. It was an idea from the Divine. The chantry doesn’t let other races join its ranks. I know there are elves who believe, but that never matters to the humans. We’re heretics for our ears. We’re heretics for being born in a form they think of as lesser, and I’m worse because I’m Dalish and a mage. The only thing protecting me is my mark, otherwise I could be killed for my ears, for my vallaslin ” 

“Hey!” Rook interrupted. “Lavellan. Cyrith. You’re spiraling.. Your clan is okay. Word will get there, but the Free Marches are a ways away, right? Just relax. As for the Inquisition… It doesn’t keep others from joining like the Chantry. You can believe what you want, and no one is going to hurt you, and if we have anything to say about it, anyone like you, or me. It isn’t our responsibility to change their minds, either.. But it is our responsibility to show up for those who need help. So focus on that, okay?”

Lavellan nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. “Right. Yeah. Yeah… We have to be there for others.”

Rook had a sinking feeling that Lavellan was taking that in a way that led down a difficult path of neglecting his own needs for the good of others. Something Rook was terribly familiar with. Just pushing and pushing and pushing themself through, without a stop, without a break, victory and loss, fight after fight, all of it, until everything had a chance to crash into them when they’d been forced to stop, in the prison for Regrets that Solas had built for the Gods. 

It was different for Lavellan, though. He didn’t know the stakes yet, but he would. He would have a better foundation, too, with the inquisition. Not a handful of allies brought together by circumstance, barely holding together under the strain of the war, all with their own problems and agendas… Not that the inquisition didn’t have its challenges, but at least the threat was in front of everyone’s face, instead of something they would like to ignore for convenience or born of some twisted ideology. 

Rook looked up, tents and a fire-pit coming into view. 

“We’re almost at camp. What’s the plan?”

“Food, then we find those wolves. If we can, we can mark out places for the watchtowers on the way.” Lavellan answered, shakiness cleared from his voice now. He descended the hill, arriving at camp. If there was something Rook was familiar with, it was hunting wolves. 

***

“We should kill the demon quickly. It will probably free the wolves if we do it like that, so we won’t have to kill them.” Lavellan said to the group as he led the way down the hill. The rushing of the shallow river was starting to hit Rook’s ears. 

“It would be good, if possible.” Cassandra agreed. “Killing them would be cruel if they can be freed, but we might not get the chance.”

“I could do more sleep spells, but that kind of magic is pretty tiring, so if there are a lot of wolves…” Rook sighed. “I don’t want to kill them, either, though.” 

They arrived at the riverbank. There were bright flashes of green twisting and casting their glow across the water and the rocks, the distorted sounds of demons wailing, speech garbled and twisted. 

“A rift— Maybe the demon that is controlling the pack wandered from this one?” Lavellan grabbed his staff out, readying for a fight. The mark flared with burning light, and Rook couldn’t be surprised by people thinking it was holy for that alone. It cast a halo around Lavellan’s hand as they neared the rift. Like the hand of the maker cast down to earth, set to smite the demons who attacked the moment the group came into view. Cassandra rushed ahead, blade raised high and face twisted in a battle cry. The area was swarmed with despair and terror demons, making it a mix of rushing water and twisted, slowing vines from either demon. Rook knew their ice would be pretty useless here. The river was rushing by, but near the falls it crackled as ice froze over, broke, and froze again in a never-ending cycle. At least as long as the despair demons were around. One of them had set itself on cassandra, surrounding her with thick, icy fog, trying to claw and bite at her with one of its many, blunt-toothed mouths. It’s mouth met her shield, chomping down on thick metal, and the thing was stunned enough that Cassandra could dispatch it by blade.

Lavellan and Solas teamed up, combining their spells to slow down and burn a terror demon like a pyre. Varric’s strategy of raining arrows down and keeping his distance was still effective. Rook scanned the field, holding their blade at the ready, trying to keep track of the thread of magic that would lead them to flame like a fuse to a firework, but suddenly their fingers were too cold to grasp even their blade. The world felt iced over, empty, like sound swallowed by snow. Gentle hands rested on his shoulders and a many mouth form whispered into their curved, pointed ears, voice echoing in many tones. Harding, Varric, the Crows that had died in Treviso, Shathan, so many. The voices assaulted him, a blizzard storm surrounding them and only them. 

”You could have saved us,” they all hissed, cried, wailed. “ We died for nothing!”

”Now you are alone! Despair, for we are gone, and you yet remain!” They accused, cursed, spat at Rook with venom. They cried out, falling to their knees, trying to call up their magic like a shield but it was as if the demon was feeding on their struggle, sipping on the tears freezing to their cheeks and breath turning to mist as soon as it left their throat. 

”Alone, Alone, Alone!” They chanted, branded, sentenced. Rook sobbed but it came out silent and their throat went raw. The tang of metal rested on the back of their throat. Crystals of ice formed around their feet, their arms, forcing them to sink into the river and the silt, skin stinging from the rush of cold. There was… nothing they could do. No choice, nowhere left to run, backed into a corner like a wolf, and muzzled so they couldn’t bite. 

“Rook! Rook, get up! Come on, fighter, don’t give up now!” strong arms dragged them across the bank, all of a sudden, ice crackling, breaking. A shriek was distant in their ears but it was hard to focus on anything but the warmth around them as they were hauled away from the pit of ice and cold they’d been in. Their ears burned from cold, cheeks raw, lines from their tears feeling like canyons had been opened in their skin. 

Rook coughed, prying their eyes open. In time to see lavellan snap his wrist and force the rift above the river to shut, and for a hard knock from Solas’s staff and a well-timed immolation spell to turn the final despair demon into powder and ash. They groaned, sitting up properly and running their hands through their hair. It was wet with melting frost and they shook their hands to dry them. 

“Rook..?” Varric leaned down just slightly to look at them, eyes wrinkling at the corners with his expression. Their vision was blurring and  everything was swaying just a little.

“Varric…?” Rook’s voice broke, rising in pitch and making their nose twitch a little, and they could feel the muscles in their chin tense against their will, making their lower lip tremble. “Varric, I’m so sorry. ” 

“Hey, it’s alright. You’re fine, fighter.” A new nickname, whether they had planned for it or not. Something cold stabbed at their heart. Varric spoke softly to them, and was holding something out. Rook blinked slowly, the world coming into focus as Varric passed them their dropped  mage-knife. “Here.. come on, can you stand?”

“Should we go back to camp?” Cassandra asked, making her way over and looking at Rook’s trembling form. Rook’s hand closed around the hilt of their knife and they slid it back into its scabbard. Slowly everything rushed back, like grass being revealed as snow melted in the spring. They sniffed, then forced themself to stand.

“No. I’m fine.” They rubbed their eyes, taking deliberate, slow breaths. Each breath in was cold, sharp, but when they exhaled they wound themself up, tighter, warmer, pulling the threads of the fade to dry the water off their skin and out of their clothes, and salve any injuries they’d acquired. Steam hissed and rose off of them– They would not allow themself to become so vulnerable again, they swore silently, angrily. “Rift’s closed, demon’s dead. Let’s keep moving.”

Always moving, always pushing, never a second to stop and rest, no. They weren’t the leader in this but they weren’t going to slow the others down, either. 

“Is this wise?” Solas asked, and Rook wanted to snap, wanted to snarl and bitterly laugh, because for a spirit of wisdom-turned-elf, what did Solas know about wisdom, what did Pride know about love and grief? Rook wove the thoughts in with their magic, did not lash out, because it wasn’t fair (and it wasn’t necessarily true, either), they were just raw and vulnerable. 

“It isn’t always about wisdom.” Rook just said, and trudged along the bank in the direction the group had already planned on going, before encountering the rift. 

“Sooner we deal with the wolves, the better.” Lavellan sighed, and that was all he offered on the matter before he went back to leading the group down the bank. 

The path twisted and winded around the side of the mountain, underneath large, rocky outcroppings. Lavellan sometimes stooped to puck spindleweed and elfroot from the ground, stashing them in his pack before continuing on. Then, they heard it in the distance, the deep, echoing howl of wolves.

“We’re getting close– be ready.” Cassandra warned, her blade still drawn from the fight earlier. Rook took a deep breath. Something in those howls rattled their bones, rattled something in their core, and they couldn’t be certain what exactly it was. They just pushed through as they stepped out from the shadowed area by the river, into a large, circular piece of canyon. Wolves stood outside of a massive crevice in the rock, eyes aglow with strange magic and teeth snapping with aggression. This was it. They had barely a moment to think before the wolves were on them, charging as one. Blurs of black fur and fangs, massive and powerful and beautiful in an unexplainable way, but driven to madness. 

“We have to push through! The demon will be within their lair!” Solas called out over the cacophony of barks and whines that went on as they fought. 

Rook dredged up their magic from within, using the orb to focus a wave of ice that captured two of the wolves by the legs and held them in place. They whined and squealed, biting and thrashing, but they couldn’t free themselves. Cassandra was forced to kill the wolf that had attacked her. It would die regardless, its teeth having broken and snapped on her armor, destroyed. Its maw was a mess of blood and bone, and Cassandra cringed as it gave its dying gasp. There was one last wolf, and it was facing Lavellan. He dodged and rolled, using a fade-step spell to blur out of existence for a moment, blinking back into the world properly and giving the wolf a hard smack on the head. It made a garbled noise and dropped heavily to the ground, dazed. 

“Come on, come on!” Lavellan gestured. “Before it wakes up!” he rushed to the cave’s entrance, hand alight with the buzz of magic, staff spinning into position, and they all fell in line and followed without question. 

The cave was full of twisted vines and rocks, and once it might have been a cozy home to the wolves. Now there were claw marks, and skeletons picked clean of flesh and valuables. Some humanoid, some deer, some unrecognizable but the bones had clearly been gnawed on. 

There were more wolves, but they ran away, into a central chamber where they gathered into a writhing mass of fur and claws around a tall, spindly figure. With twisted limbs and an elongated face, it had the wooden look of a terror demon, but it was something different. Its face stretched into something like a wolf’s skeletal maw and its body wrapped in thick, matted pelts of skin still dripping with oily fat and blood. It looked like it was grinning at them as they came in. 

There was something in Rook’s throat and they couldn’t tell if it was vomit, their heart, or magic. Some kind of amulet was set into the demon’s chest, chain twisting around its neck and wood warped and half melted around the token. The pendant glowed with magic, green and vibrant, Rook could feel its pull. 

“The demon.” Rook hissed. 

Lavellan had taken in the cave, the various levels and high spots, the places where the pack was forced to break apart due to rubble or bones. 

“Varric!” Lavellan called. “Get up high and rain down arrows! Cassandra, flank them with your shield, I want the wolves herded out! Solas and Rook, head to either side of the chamber, use ice spells to immobilize the wolves! Give me a shot at that demon!” Lavellan pointed violently towards the creature with the end of his staff, letting out a noise that was full of rage, somewhere between a snarl and a battle-cry, followed by a burst of flame that struck the demon hard and knocked it to the ground. Each of them rushed off at Lavellan’s order without a second thought. Varric was muttering something about irony and dwarves, but Rook didn’t catch it as an explosion of ice spells came from Solas’s position, and they knew to start casting their own as soon as possible. 

The wolves became a rushing mass, trying to attack whatever they could get their teeth around or paws on, but Cassandra’s attack had scattered some of them and forced them to focus on her and her blade. The demon screeched, taking heavy steps forward. The wet pelts clinging to its body made meaty thwacks and slapped against its side, spraying blood and foamy fat off it as it rushed forward with the wolves, towards Lavellan, who twisted in a series of moves almost like a dance to summon fire around himself. It formed a wall, a writhing, living shield of light and heat. The demon snarled and reared back, trying to send out a wave of power that would weaken and immobilize Cassandra, who drew in close from behind. It failed. Instead the fur and the fat on the pelts it wore lit up, a beacon-flame that made the wolves retreat. 

They snarled and howled, but didn’t attack. The demon thrashed and twisted, clawing at the fire, clawing at the pelt, trying to use its power to put it out, but it did nothing. It was useless. This was the real world, not the fade, and only so much of its power really meant anything, and it meant even less as Lavellan attacked it relentlessly, fearlessly. He hit hard with the blade of his staff and blasted spell after spell. 

The terror demon was no match for him. It couldn’t get the fire out and the vines that made up its body blackened and charred, turning to ash. It collapsed and hit the ground, nothing but a smoking pile of ash and pelts. Lavellan spun his staff, lighting the end up with flame. The wolves whimpered and kept back, though their ears were pinned and hackles raised. Some of them shook their heads out or stumbled. The demon’s hold was released. Lavellan leaned down to the sludge-pile, nudging the skins away and pulling out the pendant. 

“This thing has some kind of magic,” Lavellan said softly. “Connected to wolves but… I don’t think it should have done this.”

“The demon corrupted it.” Solas walked down. The wolves kept back, pressing into the corners of their den, not attacking.

“We freed them,” Rook said. “We should get out of here.”

“Good idea.” Cassandra breathed a bit heavily and sheathed her blade. “And tell Master Dennett that the wolves will no longer be a problem.”

“Maybe stop at camp and– Oh,” Lavellan had started to speak, but a small wolf stepped forward. It was barely older than a pup, but it bumped its head against him. It looked up at him with wide, clear eyes. Its nose twitched and it turned, slowly walking away. “I think.. It wants me to follow?”

“Told you all, wolves are smarter than you think…” Rook went with lavellan, following the little wolf down the path. It led them to a chamber with small sacks of gold, valuables, and a piece of some kind of wall-carving. 

“The demon must have forced them to steal all of this.. Some of it might be returned to the refugees,” Cassandra followed behind them after a few moments.

“Seeker… I don’t think that’s going to be possible.” Varric joined her side. “Look.” He pointed across the way, to another chamber. Full of twisted bones and half-rotting corpses. 

“Maker’s mercy…” Cassandra gasped.

“We… should burn them,” Rook said. They had to swallow a lump in their throat. So many innocent people, torn apart so easily. How many had lived in the Hinterlands all their lives? How many had Harding known as a kid, grown up alongside? How many still had families, searching for them, or with the howls of wolves echoing through their dreams?

“I will commend their souls to the Maker.” Cassandra said softly. 

“And if they didn’t believe in the maker?” Lavellan asked. Cassandra at least had the sensitivity to shove down her surprised (and perhaps appalled) expression at that. 

“Then… I will pray, they still find peace, wherever their souls may be led.” Cassandra conceded. She began her prayer, and Rook stepped forward. They grabbed onto their magic, pulling the thread, the wick to flame, and lighting the bodies up. 

The wolves in the cave began to howl, turning their heads towards Elgar’nan’s Sun. It drowned out Cassandra’s prayer, but Rook heard Lavellan murmur softly in elven.

”Na melana sahlin. Falon’din enasal enaste.”  

They watched the bodies until the flames burned low, then Lavellan turned and began to walk out of the cave. The wolves gave them a wide berth, though they still had their eyes trained on all five of them. Some of them particularly lingered on Rook and Solas, but they were trying not to think about what that might mean. 

“Let’s go back to camp. I can talk to Dennett.. The rest of you, you should take care of any injuries… Rook, especially. That despair demon got you… pretty badly.”

“I’m fine–” Was rook’s reflexive response, but Lavellan didn’t buy it for a second.

“Rest in camp. Cassandra, stay with them?” Lavellan suggested.

“I will.” She nodded, putting a hand on Rook’s shoulder. “Please. You know these demons are strong. You need rest.”

Rook let out a sigh. “Fine.” They hated the lingering looks from Solas, from Varric, but they pushed on regardless. The camp wasn’t far, and once there, Rook sat down by the fire. Despite themself, they groaned, an ache had set into their whole body, down to the bone.

Cassandra sat beside them. 

“You’re still injured.” She observed bluntly aloud. The others followed Lavellan, onwards towards the farm. 

“I didn’t heal everything, but what’s left is minor.” Rook decided to answer her honestly. She hadn’t said the question out loud, but though she could tell they were injured, she wasn’t completely sure how.

“Let me see.” Cassandra scooted closer. 

“It’s fine, I’ll have a lyrium potion and heal the rest.” They put up a hand. The tattoos beneath were torn up from the wolf’s bite the previous day. They hadn’t been able to look at it yet. The thought of it made them nauseous. 

“I am no mage-healer, it’s true. But you need bandages, and too many lyrium potions will make you sick. Let me see.” she insisted. Her nevarran accent was coming out thicker from her exhaustion. There was a tinge of orlesian sometimes– she was well traveled. Rook hadn’t heard many accents from areas other than Nevarra City or the Necropolis. They’d forgotten how harsh some of them sounded. Still, there was a kindness there, gentleness.

Rook sighed, shrugging off their coat and starting to undo the layers needed to get to their injuries. Small wounds that stung on their arms, and over their shoulders. Cassandra paused a bit, seeing their tattoos, eyes following the stark lines on their skin. Geometric designs, and a twisting snake up one arm. Her eyes went to their chest. For a moment lingering on the griffin tattooed there, but lower, at the scars there, neat and surgical. She was trying to puzzle them out, but Rook moved and coughed a bit.

“Apologies.” Cassandra moved, going to clean up some of the cuts she could see. They sat silently for a few minutes while she worked. “This one needs stitches, I think. I have things in my tent.”

“It’s– really not necessary–” They hated stitches. Had been wounded a few times, and embarrassed themself in front of Emmrich squirming from it. He had assured them that it was okay, that he was just glad they weren’t injured any more… but, Davrin had totally teased them.

“It is.” Cassandra went and got her kit. Rook sat quietly, looking into the fire. It was a campfire, simple, small.Unremarkable. But they could never look into a fire or smell smoke without thinking of Minrathous burning. They could never look into a fire without thinking of funeral pyres and the aftermath of battle. Months of burning bodies in Minrathous, months of traveling through the crossroads, the Hossberg Wetlands, Arlathan, and they were followed by that choking, thick smell of smoke and burnt hair and fat. 

They’d burnt a pyre for Harding, but it had been empty. They had cried. They couldn’t stop for days, once the final battle was over.

“Who did you lose?” Cassandra asked. “If I may ask.” 

Rook looked up. “I… You first.” 

“What?” Cassandra blinked at them.

“I can tell. You’ve lost someone too.”

“I…” Cassandra looked away, focused on her stitching. “The Divine.”

“More than that. You talk about her death so easily– it hurts, but it isn’t the same, I can tell.” They had watched her. Seen her outside of Haven, attacking the training dummies with the vigor of someone venting a lot of emotion. Her swings were trained but not enough, too half-hazard to measure up to her usual skill, calculated and cunning. She had lost something more. Something that struck deeper than that.

“My lover. His name was Regalyan. He… he was a mage. We saved Divine Beatrice together. He.. he died, at the conclave.” Cassandra admitted softly. “I have told no one else this.”

Rook was quiet. “I won’t tell anyone else.” 

Cassandra nodded. She didn’t seem to have anything to say to that. She just pulled back her hands, washing off blood with a waterskin. 

“I lost… Lost my mentor,” Rook murmured. “He… he found me, after I ran into some trouble, freeing slaves. He was uh, among them. Not a slave, just in a predicament. He took me to help with some grand mission. I don’t know, we.. We almost did it. But he… He died. I didn’t even— I didn’t even know it.” Rook’s voice broke a little. “The person we were tracking down. They used blood magic, erased my memory of his death. Made me hallucinate him for… for months. Manipulated me. It– it’s complicated. But my learning of his death was so… delayed. By the time I knew, he had been dead for a year, maybe more.” 

“That’s… I’m sorry. May he rest at the Maker’s side.” Cassandra responded. She knew the words helped a little, but barely. They were weak, but it was hard to reach grief as strong as what Rook carried.

“He wasn’t the only one. My best friend… She.. She sacrificed herself, for me. For our friends. I— She said, she would do whatever it took . And she did. She did.” Rook’s voice trembled. “Today, the despair demon– I— used her voice. My friend’s voice. Said… Said they died for nothing. Told me– I— I’m alone. Cassandra, I’m alone here. I can’t get… back to my friends. I was trying to forget it, trying to focus on helping people, but I– The demon–”

“The demon was using you. Feeding on your grief.” Cassandra put a hand on their shoulder. “That pain is real, but it was using it against you. We’re here for you. You’ll find a way to your friends, I promise. I promise, too, that what you’ve lost wasn’t for nothing.”

“I just… I don’t know that yet.” Rook started to get their clothes back on properly. 

“You will… Trust me.” Cassandra’s voice was kind, but firm. “It has to all be for something. I’ve found it, time and time again. Things happen for a reason. I have to believe that.” 

“I…” Rook started, but let the sentence die in their throat. They didn’t think they could push themself to believe it. Didn’t know what that could all mean. Maybe things did happen for a reason, but was it even a good one? Or was the maker just… Winding them up? Like some kind of clock, to be set and reset, again and again, twisting cogs in some great, endless machine, moving pieces that could never step above their station. Rook stood up slowly. “I don’t know what to believe in, right now.”  

And what had Rook’s beliefs ever really meant, in the face of everything?

Chapter Text

Blistering wind filled with flurries and bits of ice bit at Rook’s skin and their breath came out as puffs of white. They were wandering a field of ice and snow. The landscape kept shifting with the wind and they kept climbing over the snow drifts. They had no gloves to protect them from the cold, their fingers red as they hauled themself up. It was never ending, just a plane of snow and darkness in the distance. The only light they could move by was the little flickering wisps they could find, and convince them to stay for a little while before they lost interest. 

There were howls in the distance, shifting voices mixing with the hissing of fallen snow. 

“ Whenever you need me, I’ll always be there! But where were you! Why didn’t you protect me, Rook!”

Harding’s voice, hidden under layers of a howling wolf and screeching terror demons.

“Whatever it takes, you pushed me to that!” 

“No.. No, I didn’t know!” Rook stopped, sinking into the snow and taking gasping breaths. They kept sinking, a kind of crevice opening up beneath them. They were falling, but instead of through the darkness of the Fade prison it was through a glacier of deep blue ice and swirling white.  

”If you can gain their loyalty, you will not need to order them… They will volunteer.”  

Solas’s words echoing all around them, bouncing off in terrible cadence against the icey walls. 

They hit the ground, it didn’t hurt like they expected it to but the wind was knocked out of them. They lay in a dark, cold cave. Tunnels all around them leading into shadows they couldn’t make anything out in.

”You did this to us..” Something snarled from one of the tunnels. Three sets of eyes blinking and glowing, growing larger as… something approached, something that moved with scrapes and squeltches of weapon and flesh. 

“No, no nonoo..” Rook sat up, dragging themself backwards slowly as it approached. A great towering thing made of gnarled, bulbous boils of flesh and roots, exposed meat and bone. Three individuals stacked and mixed atop one another, like a fleshy mound of limb and sinew straight out of the nightmarish stories about Ghilan'nain's creations. They could recognize the faces in them: Harding, Varric, Bellara. Blighted, twisted, lost. 

”You let them win, Rook! You let the venatori win!” Neve’s voice sobbed from behind and their head jerked up. Another creature emerged, shambling forth and dragging itself with one arm like a dragon's, all scales and claws, but the body twisted and writhed like a snake’s as it moved. Neve, Taash, and Emmrich’s faces all clustered together on one set of shoulders, eyes black at the edges and bulging from their sockets. Emmrich’s flesh was torn and bone was exposed beneath.

”This is the death I feared, and it’s your fault for letting the venatori complete their ritual!”

The words ricocheted in the air around Rook. Your fault, your fault, your fault!

“Interrupting a ritual of this scale will have consequences!”  

Rook sobbed. “No! No, stop it! This isn’t real! This isn’t– IT can’t!” Where had they been before this nightmare? How did they get out? Could they climb the walls, cast a spell, free their friends from the monsters their bodies were twisted up in?

A sickly warble came from the other direction, the final tunnel.

”Is this what you think Turlum is, Rook? Is this what you wanted for us?” Davrin’s deep voice rumbled down to their bone, twisted with blighted magic and followed up by Assan’s sad chatter. A best emerged, Davrin’s torso rising from Assan’s shoulder, held together with sutures of blight and shoving Assan’s head off to the side at an odd angle. Lucanis’s own face pressing out of his chest as though Assan’s heart was outside of his heaving ribcage. Assan’s body was buckling under the weight, but he was strong, grown more, wings scraping the edges of the tunnel. But his feathers were black and oily, slick like a crow’s corpse rotting. 

Lucanis’s voice rasped next. ”First you blight Treviso…. Then you blight the world… Spite and I will never be free! Not like this!” He cried, Assan’s wings lighting up violet and shuddering, stilting, jerking.

“Smells like… failure and rot!” Spite snarled. 

“No!” Rook’s voice broke, and they curled in on themself. “No, I’ll fix this. I can… I can fix this! It isn’t real, it isn’t real, stop! Stop it! I want to wake up, let me wake up!” 

The creatures– their friends— howled with laughter, and descended upon them. 

***
Water sloshed at their feet, the cattails dancing from the wind and the current. Their throat felt raw and their eyes burned with tears a bit as Rook heaved. They were nauseous from their dreams. It was hard to keep quiet, everything rushing over them in waves like a forceful blizzard. They ran a hand over their face as they tried to keep calm, tried to reign it in. Sneaking away from the tents had been easy, the other scouts assuming that they just needed the bathroom or something, not noticing their tear-stricken face or the tremble in their breath. 

So Rook believed, until someone approached. Her footsteps were light and careful as she approached. Rook still heard, and they turned swiftly. 

“Uh, sorry did I– Oh,” Rook gasped a little. They had only heard the dwarf approaching because she had wanted him to. “La– Scout Harding– What– What are you doing out here..?”

“I was about to ask you, that.” Harding smiled sweetly and despite the moonless sky above, it was like a sudden beam of sunshine had hit the spot they stood on. She felt different– The fade was quieter around her. Silent, really. She had dreamless sleep and the stone did not heed her call, not yet. There wasn’t this new, wondrous thing for the fade, for spirits to investigate, nor a reconnection with something lost. No, she was just… Just Harding. Lace Harding. An inquisition scout, a friend… Not stricken with new power from the dagger that had killed a friend… When she first received her magic, and Rook knew she was okay, they had thought it was a gift. Now, they weren’t so sure about that. Would it have turned out differently? 

“I– I just, uh, had trouble sleeping, is all.” Rook managed after a moment, after realizing they had been staring strangely for a moment too long. 

“Oh, maybe because of a dream?” Harding tilted her head. “The others in Redcliffe tell me about them, sometimes. They sound… weird.”

Rook had to laugh a little, but they wanted to cry, sob, fall to their knees and hug Harding as close as they could because she was alive , maker, she was right in front of them smiling, laughing, telling them about home. They had missed that. Missed hearing her talk about the letters and gifts from her Ma, or the random plant facts, or stories from the Inquisition— Missed her smile. 

“Yeah.” They still spoke with a raspy voice, still softly. “A nightmare, more like. Had a… a run in, with a despair demon. It… I’m still a bit shaken up, I guess.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Harding’s smile dropped and again, Rook wanted to fall to their knees. They didn’t want her to stop smiling, didn’t want to see that creeping sadness on her face. (Oh, she looked so scared when she died. She had fought to the end and what did she get for it? She wasn’t even buried, wasn’t even returned to the stone– She had been in so much pain . They were supposed to protect her, protect the team–) “Do you… need to talk about it..? You look..”

“I– No, I’ve… I just want to get my mind off of it, honestly. Off…” Everything. Grief, loss, struggle, they just wanted to be happy for once, was that too much to ask? They just wanted it to stick . 

“Should I… leave you alone?”

“No!” They didn’t mean to object so suddenly, and Harding looked a bit startled at their reaction. They covered it quickly. “I mean, you don’t– I don’t want to keep you here. I just… don’t want to be alone right now.” That much was true. But they also wanted her to stay, just for a little while. Just a few minutes longer, even if she wasn’t the same, even if everything was different now. 

“Okay!” She smiled, rocking back on her feet and not seeming terribly concerned once they explained. “I’ll be right here, we can chat about whatever you want.” 

“Uh… could you tell me about… I don’t know. You? I mean, I just, I haven’t met many people around here. Or in the Inquisition, and it’s growing fast.” Rook let out a quiet, awkward little laugh. 

“Sure, I mean, part of joining up was because I could travel, meet new people, but I also wanted to help people. We got it bad out here right now, everyone’s on edge or in danger. Even the mages, they’re just… they’re just scared, and they don’t know what to do.” Harding went and sat on a nearby rock, leaning her bow up against it. It was older, not quite make-shift but it had been repaired a few times.It was a hunting bow, not a weapon for killing people, even if it did get the job done. It was different from what she carried years later, outfitted by the Inquisition and sent to the North to fight, to kill Venatori and anything else that got in her way. To kill a god , just… not the one she thought she was after. 

“They got close to freedom but they don’t know what that is yet..” 

“Exactly. And… so many people, they’re dying, or have nowhere to go. The inquisition– it’s a chance to help, to right those wrongs. And– I believe in the Herald. He’d already done so much, I mean, you saw him at the crossing! He took charge, he protected the villagers. And with the rifts… I heard from a scout who was near one of the ones he closed, in Haven. They said his hand lit up like the sun… It’s got to be something holy.”

Elven magic from a thousand or more years ago, and from someone who made no claims to holiness– And Lavellan didn’t want to, either. It was like a twisted mirror, but Rook didn’t want to think about it all. The scale got to them. Ancient elven gods, secrets they couldn’t tell anyone else no matter what, truths that people had been looking for or had buried for so long and they had it all rattling in their head. They didn’t want to stop and absorb that for too long. It would probably drive them mad if they tried. 

“He’s brought light. Hope.” Rook looked into the water. “The inquisition has. But it’ll do more.”

“You sound so sure,” Harding commented. “That’s a good thing, I mean! I just… wow.”

Rook laughed a little too, they couldn’t help it. Harding sat near them. She was smiling, laughing, and talking. There wasn’t all that pressure on her, all the grief– She had lost things from the breach, from the rebellion, neighbors and friends alike had been killed, but there weren’t any ancient gods or the man she’d been traveling with for the better part of a decade, dead. She was… so young. So different– Would she be so ruthless now, as she had been when Rook knew her? Did mercy still mean a bandage for this Harding, and not a blade?

“We have to be sure… Be sure of the good we can do, so we don’t lose sight of it all.” Rook sat on another rock, watched the starlight reflect off the water. “Something to work towards.”

“Wow… That’s really smart, you should write a book or something.” Harding crossed her legs, holding her ankles and smiling again. Maybe she did have some kind of magic, something that made her that bright. 

“I don’t know if I’m really the type to write a book. Besides, I have plenty of friends writing books already.” Rook shrugged a shoulder. “Besides, I wouldn’t have the time, between fighting demons and whatever else crops up because of this mess. It's chaos.… Oh, but it does make me homesick.”

“You’re from Tevinter, right? I heard some other scouts talking.” Harding mentioned.

“They– They talk about me?” Rook’s eyes widened, and they were alarmed. Was this bad? Even more effect on the timeline, right? What kind of ramifications did this have? Harding must have noticed them growing nervous, but didn’t guess the reason (why would she, it sounded crazy).

“Hey, it’s alright! It wasn’t anything bad. Actually, I think one of them was kinda into you.” She giggled. She was so.. Well, she had always been like that, but it was so much more prevalent. 

Rook decided to play along. “Oh.. Uhh, well… Anyway, no sense in hiding it anymore… I am from Tevinter, yeah.”

“That’s– That’s kinda cool! I’ve never met anyone from Tevinter. Some around Redcliffe have but not anyone… normal?” She had to search for the word for a moment and her voice came out squeaky, unsure. 

“You mean, they haven’t met anyone who wasn’t a slaver, or an escaped slave, or an asshole magister on what they would consider a shitty vacation to the south?” Rook clarified. 

“Uh, yeah.” She nodded, blushing a little bit.

“Yeah… Well, I’m not really anything special. There’s a lot of just… regular people. Laetan and soparati, but most of them don’t make it out of Tevinter…” Rook sighed. They weren’t sure how far they could let this conversation go without revealing too much.

“It sounds scary, I mean, with the slavery and blood magic… Or the way the Chantry is. I mean, we call your divine the Black Divine, which is creeepy!” Harding shook her head. “But it isn’t like we don’t have problems down here, either. But the Inquisition– It can fix a lot of that! I mean, it’s our chance.”

“I hope you’re right, Harding.” Rook stood up again. “Thanks for talking to me.. I appreciate it. I do think I’m going to try and get more sleep now, though. I’ll need it if we do even half as much fighting as we did today.” 

“Okay! Sleep tight. Us scouts will keep watch so you can. Good luck out there, Rook!”

“You too, Harding.” Rook smiled. It took all their strength to start walking away. They had no intention of getting more sleep, however. No, they had their thoughts elsewhere. Set on home, they knew they needed to contact Solas again. They just had to wait long enough– Harding would definitely notice (and follow) if they went anywhere now. They returned to their tent, sitting down for a moment and pulling out the wolf’s dagger. It glowed blue against the darkness, pure lyrium humming softly. There had to be a way– The dagger could cut through the veil, through enchantments– They had used  a rift to power its magic before, but maybe it didn’t even need that, maybe it just needed to be thin, and they needed time to concentrate..? 

They were soon to find out. 

***

Sneaking away from camp had been a little more difficult than anticipated, but they had an advantage many rogues didn’t– They could warp the fade, make it so that the scouts didn’t particularly notice them. They just slipped from the scout’s minds and they went on their way. They moved along the outskirts of Redcliffe farms and up the path. There was a ridge above the farm that they had seen, and there were likely to be a few spots where the veil was thin. 

The dagger hummed a bit in response as they pulsed magic, trying to sense the spots. Their magic was able to seek them out, because being closer to the fade often amplified their abilities. They found a spot near some old statues with a stone bench. Their magic jumped in reaction– The veil was worn down like a thread-bare blanket, another world just trying to peer through into their own. Rook breathed shakily as they sat down and drew out the wolf’s dagger. It glowed and hummed still, vibrating with power. Sometimes, they felt a bit nauseous to be near it. They weren’t certain if it was because of the power held or because of the friend it had killed. 

Rook held it in both hands, beginning to channel magic through. They really… didn’t know what it would do. Their first contact with Solas (from their time) had been a shot in the dark, flailing their power through the dagger and the rift, done with panic and with the knowledge that it could very well go badly and end with them on the end of a demon’s talons or at the end of a (“former”) templar’s blade. This… It was slower. They had the time to think about it, to try and think what enchantments would need to be woven, and powered, to push the link far enough that they could reach Solas from so… far? Perhaps the fade understood time more as a distance, they didn’t know. Still, the dagger… 

They raised it up and channeled their magic, hoping it would do something, wake it up somehow. Maybe the blood in it, the thing binding Solas to the veil, would react accordingly? 

To their surprise (and relief) it worked. The air shimmered, a flickering mirage of Solas forming in the air before them, glowing like golden-hour sunlight spraying across fresh mountain snow. 

“Rook.” Solas’s form wavered as he spoke. A thousand flickering colors passed over him in a wave of shimmer and shine. “You are in far less peril than when we spoke at that rift. Good.”

“I’ve… found another way.” Rook looked at the dagger. It spun and moved back and forth wildly, like the arrow of a compass jerking, or the second hand on a dwarven clock. 

“This will not last long, but it is commendable that you were able to reach me without amplifying your magic to such a magnitude as that produced by a rift or by blood magic…” Solas studied them, a hand coming up to rub his chin thoughtfully.

“I was once a brilliant student, you know. My family would accept nothing less, even if none of them had magic.” Rook shrugged. “I needed to reach you though– Are you any closer to figuring out how to get me out of this? Is Neve? Is she okay?”

“Neve is fine. Very worried for you, but she is well. You have cultivated a number of deep friendships. I believe the Mourn Watcher and Dalish technomancer you recruited with the veilgaurd are aiding her in her efforts, as well as myself…”

“Good. And I have… questions. Have you… noticed any changes? In memory or other things throughout the world? I’ve gotten twisted up with the inquisition and it seems unavoidable… I… I don’t want to cause problems. And…The venatori. I’m now… not so certain that I ended up coming to this time… Alone.” A shiver ran up their spine. Their knowledge could be a weapon. Against Solas, the Venatori, more, but the venatori now had some of that same knowledge. 

“I have not noticed, but if the change was so ingrained… Perhaps I would not. But seeing as I am aware of your time travel and have no memory of you within the inquisition, I believe it is safe to say that whatever happened, we shall be able to undo it.” Solas confirmed. His image flickered for a moment and he glanced around. “Time is short, be quick.”

“Okay– I, I just,” Rook’s voice shook a little. What did they need to ask? But they knew they could get back, it wouldn't happen the way that it had been! The inquisition did not need them as much as they feared. “I–” They began to say, but Solas flickered again.

“ Fenhedis !” Solas cursed. “ We’re out of time, but you can reach me again when you need me, Rook!”

“No, wait!” Rook stood up but the dagger stopped spinning. Solas’s visage dissolved. “Argh! Fuck- Damnit! That was— useless!” They groaned, stowing the dagger. It gave them hope…. But had hardly told them something they didn't already know. 

They had to get back to camp.

***

They were leaving the next day. After marking the watchtowers and speaking to some more villagers about getting various needs fulfilled, the group had met up with some inquisition agents bringing supplies back to Haven. The village was growing fast with pilgrims, refugees, and inquisition initiates. It would buckle under the weight of all that too quickly if they didn’t ensure that it was well supplied and well-fortified. 

Rook had been fairly quiet but, by the grace of the Maker Himself, no one pressed them. Perhaps they were too busy, or the other party members simply assumed that they needed a break and the rest after the despair demon’s torment from the previous day. Rook wasn’t going to push their luck by asking, though. The group had already learned more than enough about them. They didn’t need even more coming to light and bringing up suspicion (even more, in the case of Solas.) 

They weren’t looking forward to the days of arduous travel, but it would be worth it to sleep in a proper bed at the end of it all. Maybe it would help them through the nightmares they anticipated. Rook moved in step with the other inquisition agents that clustered around them. Some chattered idly, and others kept eyes on the road.

 The Inquisitor walked ahead, flanked by Harding. She had all kinds of questions and things to say. Lavellan asked her about where she was from, her background, and even though she came from a humble farming family in Redcliffe, she had a lot to say on the matter. It was her whole life, after all, and if there was anything Harding could do, it was chatter. Lavellan seemed delighted by her jovial energy– It was probably a switch from the grim bunch they’d gotten stuck with (though they knew there was a fondness and affection even years later, after the inquisition disbanded). 

Cassandra took up the rear and Varric and Solas had lucked out by getting to sit in one of the supply wagons. Solas held his staff and watched out the back of it. Varric was chattering too, telling some story or another about Hawke to Solas that Rook tried to overhear but couldn’t quite get. Solas seemed at peace with staying there and listening. 

When they got to the village again, after days of slugging it through snow and ice and Varric complaining about the cold (“You people are crazy, who willingly builds a settlement, a temple, in weather like this!” he’d said, and Cassandra had told him that the mountains were symbolic for Andraste, and he surprisingly hadn’t argued with that. He had brought up the snails again, though.)

When they got there it was.. Emptier than they expected. Rook frowned, climbing off the wagon they were on.

“Where is everyone?” They asked a nearby scout.

“Up at the chantry– there’s some kind of commotion up there, I dunno.” The scout shrugged. “I’m not getting involved in my off-hours.”

“Fair enough.” Rook laughed a bit. 

“Let’s go take a look?” Lavellan sighed. “I need to get to the chantry, anyway, and tell everyone what happened in the hinterlands– they’ll have questions even with the letter.” 

“This can’t be good.” Cassandra stepped up beside them. The group approached the gates, which had been reinforced in the time that they had been gone. A couple of inquisition soldiers pushed them open and let the group inside. Getting up the steps and going through town was easy. Rook was relieved to see civilization after so long on the road– They still weren’t used to the travel, and they had a bone-deep ache that wouldn’t go away without a hot bath and a long nap as soon as they could. But first, investigating the commotion. 

A group of robed mages and templars were crowded around the doors to the chantry. They were shouting and jeering, arguing back and forth. 

“Your kind killed the Most Holy!” A templar accused, thrusting a pointed finger towards the mages.

“Lies– Your kind let her die!” A mage spat, teeth bared and staff raised slightly. The Templar’s hand twitched for his blade, a snarl making his lips and nose curl with clear and pure disgust. 

“Shut your mouth, mage!” The templar raged, ready to draw his blade, were it not for Cullen shoving his way between the Mage (who held their staff at the ready) and the templar.

“Enough!” He shouted, trying to get his voice heard above that of the crowd. He looked between both sides pointedly, harshly. He had a lot of presence, Rook had to give him that much. The mane of fur around his shoulders from his coat gave him every appearance of a lion– ironic for a Fereldan– and he was prepared to strike. 

“Knight captain!” The templar exclaimed and took a step back. 

“That is not my title any longer!” Cullen reprimanded. Rook watched, head tilted. A former templar, but he had still regarded them with suspicion when they met, still was unsure about Lavellan, and perhaps still wished for the Templars to be the ones to help seal the breach, if Rook recalled correctly. Maybe he didn’t trust the mages, or maybe it was simple hope that he could redeem the templars somehow by helping to heal the wounded sky. Cullen continued, “We are not templars any longer!” Rook nearly laughed. Looks like a Templar, hates mages like a templar, does lyrium like a templar. It did little to sway them to new beliefs, if the only change was by title alone. “We are all part of the Inquisition!” Cullen looked at the mages when he said that, dictated it clearly and strongly. 

In the wake of silence after he spoke, the crowd parted. People shuffled back in the snow, making room as Chancellor Rodrick moved through. He looked down his nose at them, hands folded tight behind his back. A sniveling, pompous ass, Rook could identify it immediately. He still thought Lavellan should be in chains, should be on trial for murder and not praised for saving them all from the demons falling out of the literal sky . 

“And what does that mean , exactly?” He spoke high, in a nasally voice that made Rook cringe. He stopped walking a few feet short of Cullen, glancing up and down at the former templar.

“Back already, Chancellor?” Cullen sighed, exasperated. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Rook was certain that the Chancellor had been pestering the Inquisition from the moment that the group had left for the hinterlands. 

“I’m curious, Commander,” The chancellor practically spat the title, “As to how Your Inquisition and its… “Herald” will restore order as you’ve promised.” He sneered, turned to the crowd as if he were giving a sermon, as if he were speaking holy words to the mages and templars gathered, who were inches from being at one another’s throats again.

“Of course you are…” Cullen shook his head. “Back to your duties, all of you!” 

The crowd grumbled, some looked up with a bit of renewed vigor for a debate. Then Lavellan approached. His hand glowed and he held his head high, looking each templar and mage in the eye. They turned, beginning to disperse. Some of them stared for a moment but Lavellan kept walking towards Cullen and the Chancellor. Each step was taken with graceful purpose, not stumbling in the mess of packed snow and footprints that would cause anyone else to slip or twist an ankle. 

Cullen sighed as the last of the crowd went. “Mages and templars were already at war… Now they’re blaming each other for the Divine’s death.” 

“Which is why we require a proper authority to guide them back to order!” Chancellor Rodrick bit back. He shifted on his feet and looked at Cullen with a gaze that burned with what Rodrick might consider righteous fury. 

Cullen’s lips twitched a little, he practically laughed. “Who, you? Random clerics who weren’t important enough to be at the conclave?” 

Rodrick’s mouth shriveled a little as he glared. “The rebel inquisition and its so-called Herald? I think not.” 

“I don’t believe I’m Andraste’s Herald any more than you do, Chancellor Rodrick.” Lavellan finally spoke. He looked at Cullen, then Rodrick. 

“That… laudable humility,” Rodrick searched for the words, but it still sounded disingenuous. “Won’t stop the inquisition from using the misconception when it suits them.”

Lavellan rolled his eyes. Cullen spoke before he did. “The Inquisition claims only that we must close the breach or perish.”

Which wasn’t entirely true, but Rook hoped it would at least shut the Chancellor up. 

“And it isn’t as if the Chantry has not made its own claims that weren’t true, when it suited things best. Forget not about the cure for the Rite of Tranquility that started most of this mess, Kirkwall aside.” Lavellan pointed out. 

Chancellor Rodrick conveniently ignored what Lavellan had said. Perhaps because he could do nothing to refute that. “You say that now, Commander… We shall see if the sentiment remains true.” 

Lavellan huffed. “Remind me why we’re allowing this fool to stay, Cullen?”

“Clearly the templar knows where to draw the line.” Rodrick jabbed.

“Ugh. He’s toothless. There’s no point in turning him into a martyr simply because he runs at the mouth.” Cullen replied. “The chancellor’s a good indicator of what to expect in Val Royeaux, however.” 

Lavellan sighed. “Well let’s hope we find a solution, instead of a Cathedral full of Chancellors.”

Cullen nearly laughed. Rook saw his mouth twitch again, and a bit of movement as he took in a puff of air. “The stuff of nightmares.”

“Mock as you will!” Rodrick didn’t find it funny, but he was an asshole so Rook wasn’t inclined to care. “I’m certain the Maker is less amused.” 

“Considering the joke that the Chantry is, I’m surprised your god doesn’t have a better sense of humor.” Lavellan snorted. “We’ll make sure they see reason in Val Royeaux. Or at least won’t get in the way. The Chantry has no arms without the Templars, and while there’s plenty of politics afoot… There’s plenty of demons to kill. We saw that much in the Hinterlands.” 

“The Templars will be brought to heel again. They know what to believe in.” Rodrick was practically grinding his teeth.

“They know who holds their lyrium leash,” Cullen snarled. 

“Will that be… an issue, Cullen?” Lavellan seemed to realize, looking over.

“It will be something to manage later.” Cullen waved it off. Lavellan gave a look, studying Cullen’s face closely, like searching for something. “The breach is the more important matter.” 

“I forgot southern Templars are all mixed up in that…” Rook sighed from the fringes.

“Josephine has made arrangements, though we’re keeping that from the Chantry while things are still so delicate.” Cassandra murmured to him. “We have few templars with us currently, anyhow.”

“Right.” Rook shivered a bit. “Well! It’s cold out here. If you need me, I’ll be in my cabin.” 

Without another word, Rook walked away. The argument with Rodrick was already coming to a close, and they didn’t want to stick around to hear more rhetoric. Instead, they wanted to prepare for traveling to Val Royeaux. Going over the Frostbacks was going to be a nightmare, and there was also the Civil War in Orlais to get past. And their own troubles, they just wanted rest. For the past few years of their life, they just wanted rest.

Chapter Text

The wind howled between the cabins in Haven. Rook sat on a low wall looking over the steps into town. They were wearing their warmest clothes and wrapped in a blanket. There had been a winter storm that had delayed their travel, the scouts needed time to gather the proper supplies to make it through the mountains. Rook was glad, really. They wanted more time to rest after the Hinterlands. They wanted more time to research magic, and time magic as well. Unfortunately, the library in Haven was pretty lacking in magic related literature. Or at least, the deep theory that they wanted to read (and some of the good references they knew of hadn’t even been written yet , which was frustrating. Others, they were so old that Rook would need to specifically go out of their way to find it. 

They were mad about it. So they’d bundled up, and they were watching the snow flurries fall. They were on their own, had thought they were, but they felt a sort of prickling over their shoulder. Rook shifted a little, glancing around– Were they being watched? Rook adjusted the blanket and shifted around a little. They knocked their heels back against the stone of the wall, listening to the dull thud. They tilted their head up, listening to the world around them. The strangers moving around, citizens and scouts, the rattle of chainmail and the rustling of supplies being moved. There was fabric shifting upwind– behind them– but not the heavy canvas of tent-flaps, no, someone’s cloak. 

Rook leaned back, glancing quickly over their shoulder. They saw a brief flash of purple before they returned to facing forward. Varric had moved up to the wall below them, warming his hands over the fire again. How he was doing that very well through thick leather gloves, Rook wasn’t sure. It had to be sweaty. Varric looked up at them and gave a short wave.

“Good to see you out and about, Fighter. You seemed pretty exhausted when we got back from the hinterlands.” Varric commented. Rook jumped down from the wall and went over to the fire, sitting on one of the logs there after dusting off the snow. They cast a hand over the fire, turning the flames from their usual brilliant orange and yellow to a deeper, warmer red. It was more familiar, reminiscent of the magical lanterns that floated around Minrathous. Varric looked a little startled, and Rook just shrugged.

“I’m not used to traveling like that. In the cold, I mean. Heat, I can handle, and I don’t get sea-sick, but…” Rook shook their head. “Thought my ears might freeze off.” 

“At least you didn’t get stuck in a snow drift. Dwarves aren’t exactly built for surface travel, and I’m more of a city kind of guy.” 

“And Kirkwall doesn’t get snow, does it?” Rook asked, though the answer was obvious. It was a dry city for the most part, set on the coast of the Storm Sea and while it could handle a tropical storm, it wasn’t prepared for winter. 

“No it does not! Not like here. Can’t wait to get somewhere warm.” Varric sighed. “But you, you must really be used to the heat. A lot of Tevinter is desert, right?”

“Desert, some jungle, warm plains… I’ve also lived near the ocean all my life. Mind you I avoid sailing, it would just be dangerous…” Rook shook their head. In truth, they avoided sailing for more than the practical reason of being unable to swim. They were terrified of water, terrified of what might be writhing in the depths. The kinds of creatures that could be lurking down there– they’d been nauseous the whole time in the Ossuary, and had needed a bit of a break every time the barrier between them and the water went down. How Lucanis had stood being beneath the sea alone was baffling, let alone the torture he went through. 

“You can’t swim, can you?” Varric observed. Rook groaned a bit.

“No,” Rook admitted. “I never really learned, and by the time I could…” They shook their head. They did not want to go near water if they could help it. 

“Eh, we all have our weaknesses, Fighter.” Varric moved on. There was the nickname, again. It seemed to be sticking. 

“Please, just Rook.” They didn’t mean to sound desperate there. “I know you.. You give people nicknames, I just…”

“Not liking it? I can think of a different one.”

“No, it’s, I– My name, it was given to me by a friend. Started as a nickname, it… It was just better than my original name. I wasn’t ever really as comfortable with that one, I only kept it because my father insisted.. He didn’t want me to lose that. And I get it, just…” Rook sighed. “It’s a long story.”

Varric was watching them. They didn’t look at him. They had a hard time managing it most of the time, but now it was worse. Now they felt their name seeping into them like thick black ink, something they carried with them like a tattoo but visible only to themself. 

“I’ve got time.” Varric offered, carefully. A hand held out, easily, almost casually. They didn’t have to if they didn’t want to. And they shouldn’t, really.

“I was adopted into my family. My father found me abandoned as a baby.” Rook admitted softly. “But the blanket I was with had a name on it. They were never sure if my parents put it there or something else. Maybe my parents were slaves, which means they probably couldn’t write, or maybe they were Dalish… I don’t know. But, my father kept it as my name. And when I.. when I found out who I am, about my gender and everything… He supported me, except for changing my name. He wanted me to keep it. Like, like a symbol. Something to show my roots, somehow? I mean, the thought it nice if you don’t read into it too much. He also worried maybe I did have family out there, looking for me, and.. And, I… I didn't want it. I mostly used my last name, after a while. Then I met… He,” Rook sighed. “He died three years ago. I can’t… talk about it much. But he started calling me Rook. The reason why changed every time, he was shifty like that… But it stuck. More than anything, it stuck. It became my name. And nicknames are one thing but.. It’s still too fresh.” 

Still too painful, and to have Varric replace it with a new nickname (which frankly, wasn’t as cool) stung somewhere deep.

“I understand that… Rook it is. Let me know if you change your mind, though. Nicknames are always fun. Or aliases, if we end up on a job like that.” Varric smiled, always smooth and easy with him. He could be terrified, but still let himself give off a relaxed, easy going demeanor. Rook was almost jealous, considering the nervous wreck they could turn into once they got themself properly worked up. 

“Thanks, Varric.” Rook smiled slightly. There was so much more they wanted to say, but… It wasn’t the same. This Varric wasn’t the same, and they couldn’t get too close. It would hurt more, wouldn’t it? They knew they were going to lose him all over again. Like nothing ever happened, like none of their presence was real. It made their stomach drop but they tried not to show it on their face.  They tried to hold onto the moment, to Varric’s smile. It was younger. His hair still red, less wrinkles by his eyes, less haunting things behind his irises. Rook wasn’t looking forward to seeing that change but… How many people had been able to go back and speak with people they lost? It was a privilege, in some ways, even if it was born of terrible circumstances. (They supposed, they would not have met Neve were it not for Solas, the ritual, the Evanuris. But it was hard to think of any of that as a good thing, no matter how optimistic they forced themself to be.)

“Anytime,” Varric hummed easily. “Are you ready to go to Val Royeaux? Heard all that is being organized, after the trip to the Hinterlands drummed up word about the Inquisition.”

“Yeah, I guess. Not excited to go through the mountains…” Rook was grateful to move the conversation on to new topics. They let themself be led into easy, casual small talk, a conversation without any deep or hard-hitting revelations. Just complaining about the weather. After a while the conversation naturally trailed off, and they dismissed themself. They went up the path towards the Chantry, intending to poke around there. The building was old, very old, possibly some of it was as old as the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and had been added onto for years since then. Perhaps somewhere in there was a library, with something that would help them figure out their magical predicament. 

“Rook, is it?” A sweet voice with the tinges of an Orlesian accent carried over the wind as they crested the hill. They turned, seeing a red-haired woman with a purple hood standing nearby. She had a thick cloak, flapping slightly in the wind and lined with grey and white fur. 

“That’s me.” Rook responded. It was Leliana, they reminded themself. They had seen her several times, spoken briefly after the conclave… She was the future Divine. And a spymaster, dangerous, some thought wicked but she was driven by faith and belief in a good thing, that she could use her darker methods for good . “Something you need, Sister?”

“Leliana, please,” She corrected gently. “I’d just like to speak to you for a moment, if it does not trouble you?”

“Not at all. Something you need done?” Rook’s heart was pounding but they weren’t going to let her see their nervousness. 

“I have some questions for you, actually. If you’ll indulge me.” She smiled sweetly. There was something in her eyes though that Rook couldn’t pinpoint. 

“What kind of questions?” They countered, following her as she gestured and went to her tent. 

“Oh, easy ones.” She shrugged. “We’ll start small. What do you wish to do in the Inquisition? I’ve found little of your origins, beyond some things Cassandra mentioned. Even she seems to know little about you, too. These are uncertain times, so you’d understand our wish to keep things… out in the open.”

“I want to help people. That’s why I’m here, that’s what I’ve been doing. There’s… I don’t know, something bigger behind all this. Something that has to be stopped.” Rook answered, bare enough an answer that it was acceptable, they hoped. Leliana’s lips pursed a little.

“That’s true. Do you believe in the Maker, Rook?” Leliana asked. “Rook.. That does sound like a code name.”

“It isn’t, and yes.” They shot down the second question easily and answered the next with confidence that almost surprised them. 

“I see. Do you believe Lavellan is the Herald of Andraste? Sent by the maker?” Leliana’s eyes didn’t needle them as much this question– This was born of genuine curiosity, and perhaps part of her was seeking her own answers.

“I… I think it’s more complicated than that. I can’t really say.” They knew more than she could know. Knew the story of Solas, his orb, most of that had been passed on by Varric, but… Maybe the Maker was involved. Maybe somehow fate had pushed Lavellan. Rook always felt really uncertain thinking about it, so tended to push those kinds of thoughts away. It also got complicated, trying to believe in difficult times, and trying to believe with so many people around who didn’t, who questioned. 

Sometimes it offered new insight, sometimes it affirmed their belief or made it feel less dire, like it wouldn’t be so terrible if there wasn’t a benevolent god looking out for them (or if there was a Maker, then he was benevolent, and not indifferent at best). Talking to Harding had been enlightening too, their cultures had taught such different things about who Andraste was and what truly happened to her. 

Harding had been so shaken by everything happening with the Evanuris. Her faith tested, tried time and time again, with the Titans. The chantry taught that the Dwarves did not go to the maker’s side when they died. Had she returned to the stone? Was that a comfort to her? Had it accepted her the same as any loving god or parent would..? Did the world tremble now with all the breaths she never got to take? Rook had to push through all the thoughts and questions that were now swirling, spiraling around them, so many of them the same ones that they’d had in the past two years since Harding’s death.  

“So many things are uncertain now.” Leliana sighed. “You remind me of someone, Rook. Someone I once knew, young and brash..” She gave a small laugh. “In over her head.”

“I think we’re all in over our heads, right now, Sister.”  Rook smiled back at Leliana. There was just something so… sad, about her. Something lost, like she kept looking for someone who was meant to be at her side but wasn’t. Looking over her shoulder for someone she had lost, Rook suspected. They weren’t surprised– She had to have been close to the Divine, who had just died very suddenly. This ache was older and ran deeper, though. Rook wasn’t about to pry into it and make a mess. 

“That we are.” Leliana agreed, trying to have a lighter tone, but she was clearly exhausted. “I won’t keep you any longer, Rook. Thank you for speaking to me.”

“Of course. Anytime.” Rook nodded to her, turned, and tried to move away at a pace that didn’t show that they were shaking in their boots a little. Mourning or not, Leliana was smart, and good at reading people and picking them apart. She had been a bard, perhaps a legendary one, and she would know something was off. Time travel wasn’t going to be a good explanation for that, and it would probably get them killed. Rook retreated, going towards their cabin. 

Lavellan was sitting outside on the small bench by the door. He had scrapped the snow off it and was watching the fragmenting, fractaling lights coming out of the breach. His marked hand lay palm up in his right, which pressed and prodded nervously. When Rook approached, Lavellan’s gaze shifted to them.

“Rook, do you have a minute?” Lavellan asked. 

“Sure,” Rook answered, barely even thinking about it for a moment. Too casual, too comfortable. This was (whether he knew it yet or not) the inquisitor they were speaking to after all. Still, they couldn’t rescind the statement or it would look weird. “Want to come inside and get out of the cold?”
“I… would appreciate that.” Lavellan smiled, standing up. Rook went to hold the door open. The cabin was warmer, even with no glass in the windows they had used thick, heavy curtains to keep out the draft. Rook waved a hand and fire started in the fireplace, filling the place with more warmth. 

“Are you okay?” Rook asked, first, because it seemed like Lavellan was definitely being bothered by something. He kept fidgeting with his hands, shifting from side to side… He looked significantly less stressed now that he was inside, though. Perhaps it had simply been due to the cold. 

“I’m… I’m alright.” Lavellan gave a small shrug. “Mostly you’re just… easier to talk to, than the others. And I needed to talk to someone.”

“I- I am?” Rook was surprised. After all they felt they had been trying to be closed off, avoidant of others, but… Well, they were a chronic failure, especially at being social. “How so?”

“Cassandra is nice but when I met her I was chained up– Not in a fun way... Varric is a famous author but he’s also so… nonchalant, and so it feels weird to be all stressed out around him. Solas is…” Lavellan’s mouth worked, searching for the right words, the polite ones.

“Weird?” Rook summarized shortly. “Uptight?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Lavellan huffed out an awkward laugh. “But you… I don’t know. I guess I don’t know a lot about you, but I still feel like… Like I can trust you.”

“Oh, big mistake, you know I’m from Tevinter right? Yep, actually was planning a huge blood magic ritual later if you’re in? Can you come closer so I can stab you real quick? It’ll only hurt a moment!” Rook joked, and it was definitely over the top enough that Lavellan couldn’t help but laugh.

“I can’t imagine you even doing blood magic on a fly, you know that?” Lavellan shook his head. 

“Do flies even have blood?” Rook interjected.

“I… have no clue, but, anyway…” Lavellan looked out the window through the small gap in the curtains. Green light was cast in a line over Rook’s cot. The sun was setting and the only light in the sky was the moon and the brilliant burning glow of the Breach. Lavellan looked down at his hand, watching the shifting halo of light from his marked hand, the same green cast into Rook’s cabin. “I’m nervous about Val Royeaux.” 

“What about it?” Rook sat down in a chair after putting their blanket down. They crossed their legs.

“I’ve never been to Orlais. Met some Dalish from there, but… never been. And the civil war? The alienages being purged… We’re going to talk to the remaining Grand Clerics. I don’t know a lot about the Game, but I think it’s going to get messy. The chantry has to play, I mean you’ve seen Leliana, and the Grand Cathedral is there, that’s… There’s politics tied up there, somehow. And we’re going in half-blind. Imagine if the Black Divine was in Minrathous. It’s dangerous..”

Rook nearly laughed. They managed not to. 

“We have Mother Giselle’s list,” Rook mentioned.

“And it might not help all that much. It might not matter– I don’t know. I’m unsure about it all. Everyone seems to believe in me. If not that I’m some Herald for a god I don’t believe in, then that I can help them, that I can somehow fix all of the world’s problems right now. Maybe I can close the rifts, and the breach… But I can’t.. I don’t know. I want to help. But I don’t know how much I can do. I mean, I’m one man. I can’t change the world.” Lavellan– Cyrith. He was young, afraid, in a new culture with so many people he had been taught to fear. He ran his hands through his hair, reddish-brown locks that had been sent astray by the cold winds of Haven. 

“You can’t.” Rook said simply. Cyrith’s head snapped up and he gave them a look. They held up a hand, asking him to wait. “Not on your own. The Hero of Fereldan would have died if not for Flemeth and Morrigan, right? Wouldn’t have known what to do with the treaties without Alistair, wouldn’t have had armies without the cooperation of so many. She wasn’t alone. The champion of Kirkwall had friends, lovers, people all around Kirkwall and even still in Fereldan who helped him…” And Rook had Neve. Had Harding, Bellara, Davrin, Emmrich, Taash, Lucanis. The Caretaker, Morrigan, the faction leaders, Dorian and Maevaris, so many people at their back, trusting their leadership, pushing them forward and guiding their way. Even Solas, brief betrayal aside, had been instrumental in some of their survival. And… They never would have been there to save it all if it weren’t for Varric. Rook took a deep breath. They wanted to push down the guilt, grief, the mix of it all that crept up their spine as a desperate chill. 

Rook continued, “And you have the Inquisition. You have Leliana, Josephine, Cullen here to take care of the Inquisition. Cassandra, Solas, Varric, and me, we’ll fight at your side. You’ve already made changes, saved people. There’s all that big stuff, sure, but you’ll get there. Focus on what’s in front of you. You can save the people right there first. Don’t overextend yourself.” 

“How do you have such a level head about this? It feels like you’ve been where I’m standing, somehow.” Cyrith leaned his arms on his thighs. He looked up at Rook with watery eyes, stress apparent on his face, expression distorting his vallaslin . “You act like you’ve saved the world before.”

Little did he know… It was a strange role-reversal for Rook. Cyrith’s short visits, his letters and updates, they had often steeled Rook’s resolve or given them guidance on their next steps. Now the same teachings are coming up here. 

“We all save the world a little every day, don’t we? Just making it from sunrise to sunset. Taking care of friends, family… Those are the same things we’re saving now. The scale is different but the method is the same, isn’t it?” Maybe Varric had rubbed off on them more than they thought, that they could tell such half-truths on a whim. (“Varric is–” Solas had almost slipped, almost told them. His voice had broken and Rook hadn’t picked up on it, hadn’t realized the gap in their memory from hitting their head. “Quite practiced at shading the truth himself.” But when had Varric ever really lied to them? Did it matter? Maybe Solas had changed them instead, in his time molding them into the perfect Martyr so he could escape the prison of Regret. Left his mark deep and cruelly. The truth was hard lately, like acid on their tongue, it hurt more than a lie. Knowing they wouldn’t be believed, also ached.) 

Except… They were telling the truth more than a lie. They believed in it, believed in saving their own little world, fighting for it one day at a time. Like Neve, and Dock Town. Like Lucanis trying to free Spite and help Treviso recover. Or Taash learning to grieve and to build up a life again, Bellara bringing back elven knowledge to build a new culture, refreshed by knowledge of past mistakes, or Emmrich putting more great Scholars into the world. Davrin training griffins, teaching the Wardens about what to do in peace. To rebuild and not just be vigilant. 

“You sound like Keeper Deshanna.” Cyrith laughed. “Like, kind of a proverb. Not in a bad way, mind you, she’s a good keeper. Kind.”

“It’s good that you have people. Family. They’ll get you through the worst of times.”

“Yeah… But they aren’t here. We sent word, but haven’t heard back yet. I know there will be more time, but still I… I don’t know. My friends.. Keeper Deshanna. She… She’s like a mother to me. She raised me when my Magic came in and after my parents were..” Cyrith’s voice broke a bit and he wrung his hands. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose my clan.”

“You won’t. They’ll be okay.” Rook said, keeping their voice steady, certain. They were lying. They were lying and it felt like bile in their throat. “I promise.” 

This seemed to sooth Cyrith and he sat back. 

“Back to… to Val Royeaux. I… We’ll see elves there. I’ve not spoken to a lot of city elves. Some in Wycome and Ostwick, near where my clan sometimes trades. But everywhere is different, and I know things in Orlais are… dire.” Cyrith leaned back. “What should we do?”

“They’re just people.” Rook shrugged. “Everywhere is different. We’re also helping them, by sealing the rifts, closing the breach. The city elves… It’s complicated. I can’t speak for those in the South. I can’t speak for a lot of Elves in Tevinter, free or not, I wasn’t raised among them.”

“You weren’t?” Cyrith looked up, a little startled.

“I… No, I wasn’t. I was adopted,” Rook told Cyrith. “By a human family.”

“Oh,” Cyrith seemed a little startled. “What was that like?”

“Different. I grew up in circles a lot of elves wouldn’t see, before my magic came in I was usually kept at home. If I went out, people thought I was a slave or a servant, they were always startled to learn I’d been adopted. Any elves I ran into were perturbed, too, thinking… Thinking my origins were darker than they really are. The truth is I have no idea who my real family is. I was a foundling..” Rook sighed. “I always felt like I was being pulled between so many different worlds but having such limited steps in either. Humans in Tevinter wouldn’t accept me. Elves were more accepting, but confused and weary because of my connections. They thought I had abandoned them. Then I became a mage, and it isolated me even more. I didn’t fit in at the circles because I’m not an altus, and I’m an elf, and it’s just… complicated. Probably more so now that I’m in the south– Everyone has this idea of what an elf in Tevinter is like. They couldn’t be more wrong about me most of the time. Then sometimes that vision is just… demeaning. Like the elves in Tevinter can’t always help their situation, can’t fix it on their own, but they aren’t children. They aren’t helpless.” 

“I… had no idea,” Cyrith said softly. “I didn’t think about it.”

“Most people don’t, don’t have to until they’re confronted with something, or someone like me, who breaks that image. You’re not a bad person for it, though. That’s just kind of how things are.” Rook shrugged. “Anyway.. Elves in Orlais probably have a lot of ideas about the Dalish like that.. They’re a symbol. I think we talked about this in the Hinterlands.”

“I know. I just.. It doesn’t make it any clearer on what I should do.. I don’t.. I don’t really know what to do at all. If I was on my own I wouldn’t have thought to speak with Mother Giselle, wouldn’t have known about it. Wouldn’t have even wanted to go to Val Royeaux..” Cyrith groaned. “Actually I still don’t really.. Want to.”

“You’re not alone, though. Again. Just… take your time. You don’t have to plan it all alone, and you don’t have to overthink it. Just the task in front of you.” 

“Right.” Cyrith sighed. “I think right now… I’m going to figure out how to ride a horse.”

“Good luck!” Rook smiled. “I’m here, if you need anything.”

“Thanks Rook, again. Really… You’re.. Really helpful.” Cyrith turned, leaving. He tried not to let too much cold air in as he went. 

Rook sank into their chair once the door latched shut. It was strange to see Cyrith– Lavellan. The Inquisitor. So lost. They had spoken some at the Cobbled Swan once, about Lavellan missing the banter between friends. All his companions had scattered so far once the Inquisition was disbanded. Even one of his lovers was in the north, far away where the inquisitor could barely visit and where he wasn’t safe. Rook had their dangers to face, and had places they had to be careful around. Had their ways of being isolated, from childhood, from leadership, it was a cold thing. 

They preferred the winds of Haven to it, but they were feeling a lot of both lately.

Chapter Text

The leaves on the sapling tree Neve had in her apartment were wilting. Dried up on the edges, sun-choked and dry, she had neglected to water it for a week or more now. Neve wasn’t quite sure. After three weeks of Rook being gone, she had tried to stop keeping track of the time. She couldn’t bear to think about it, it was longer than they had been gone in the Fade after the eclipse. Neve was staring at it, and the small pile of leaves sitting in the substrate and on the floor around it. 

She had been reading for hours, so much that her eyes stung from the small letters, diagrams and equations she had been pouring over. She couldn’t bring herself to look again. It had been dead end after dead end, there seemed to be no way to do any full time travel without the use of extreme blood magic. The extent of time related magic now was slowing it down or speeding it up, but going far forward or back was impossible without blood magic or a massive rip in the fade. The Archon’s library had proven fruitless, and even the Chantry’s collection (Ashur and Tarquin had found a way to get her access to their library and archives) had little. 

Neve leaned back in her chair and pressed her eyes shut. A rush of stinging pain moved over them and she reached up to rub at them with the side of her hand. As she did, there was a knock on the door. 

“Come in,” Her voice was weak. She had been relying on deliveries of food from a worried Halos, whatever Bellara cooked up in her apartment, and a lot of bitter, burnt coffee that would make Lucanis ashamed. 

“Neve, my friend, are you well?” Emmrich stepped inside, closing the door gently behind himself with a soft click. He held some books in his arms and walked over when Neve looked up at him. The question made her throat close up and her eyes well with tears a bit. 

“Of course not.” She didn’t even sound angry. Her voice was strained and high as she was on the verge of crying hard. “I can’t… I can’t find anything. There’s been no more word from Solas, I can’t make sense of these diagrams anymore, I– what if they’re just gone? Emmrich, what if they.. I…” She pressed her face into her hands, voice trembling. She heard Emmrich sweep across the room and felt his arms around her, bony but warm and comforting.

“Shhh, my dear..” Emmrich said softly. “I know it’s hard, but we brought them back from the Fade itself before. You’ve never given up before, don’t start now.”

The words would have been comforting but Neve just felt numb. 

“Besides, I came with good news.” Emmrich pulled away, looking down at her. His smile was small, gentle and sad, but it did something to warm her. He was older looking, in just a few years the remaining color in his hair was gone and he was left with various shades of grey. He had embraced it, save for a small braid he kept with some black glass beads and a lock of someone else’s curly hair– something Strife had done at some point. It stood out in Emmrich’s usual put together, organized silhouette, but he loved it anyway. 

“What is it?” Neve sniffled, rubbing away tears. 

“We have more help, and some information too,” Emmrich explained.

Just then there was a knock from the balcony. Someone had silently made their way onto it and was now at the door, a dark silhouette through frosted glass. Neve jumped a little, startled, but the fear abated the second the door opened and revealed Lucanis. He was as deadly as the first day she had seen him, but certainly more put together. His hair was longer but better kept, wefts pushed out of his face and half of it tied back, his beard maintained and not just the result of a year of imprisonment. His face was free of dark circles and the only lines around his eyes were from smiles and a bit of age. He took a few confident steps forward, but softened as he laid eyes on her. 

“Neve,” he spoke barely above a whisper as always. “I heard about Rook. I’m so sorry you’ve been parted again. We’ll get them back.”

Tears welled again and Neve stood. Her prosthetic clicked as she went over, half falling into the arms of her friend. She didn’t mean to invade his space– but he didn’t seem to mind either. He lifted his arms up and hugged her gently. As gently as he could while wearing armor made of silver and black metal, lined with swirling designs in black and purple leather and thick plumage made from black feathers. All the grandeur of the Crows on display by the First Talon, drama and death in one being, the only person who could pull off such flashy armor but not be revealed in the shadows. He held her as long as she needed before she pulled away, sniffling. 

“I– I can’t believe you’re here, to be honest. You were traveling in the South I heard?” Neve asked.

“I was.” Lucanis nodded. “Bellara sent me a letter explaining what had happened. I came with Spite as soon as we could. I went to Vyrantium to pick at some old contacts– People I’ve done contracts for in the past. I found something. I came to tell you in person as soon as I could.” 

“What is it? A lead?” Neve asked softly, like she didn’t want the Maker to hear her speak. She didn’t dare hope, didn’t dare let herself do anything except fear the worst. 

“Information on the Venatori Magisters behind the ritual you and Rook interrupted. I have names, locations of their Estates, heirs. Many of them were “family friends” of Magister Gereon Alexius, the man who sponsored Dorian and cracked time travel in the first place.”

“We spoke with Archon Pavus about it before coming here to see you, Neve. Dorian had always wondered how exactly Alexius learned of the Venatori. As it turns out, those family friends were to blame for it,” Emmrich explained. “Corypheus promised he could stall the Blight in his son’s blood once Alexius joined him, but there were questions about how he came into contact with Corypheus in the first place. Now we know.”

“Dammit…” Neve hissed. “But, what does that have to do with all of this..?”

“Alexius figured out time travel thanks to his son, and Dorian, but also based on the research of his wife Livia, from before she died. Because of what happened in Ferelden, the research was kept under guard, as was the amulet that Alexius used to send the Inquisitor and Dorian into the future.” Lucanis took a seat. “But three and a half years ago, a certain someone broke into the Arcanists Hall in Minrathous…”

“Nadia Carcosa!” Neve gasped. “She broke in to steal the Eye of Kethisca for Solas, but it went bad and a lot of artifacts were destroyed and went missing later… But.. what does she have to do with..?”

“That’s just it. A lot of those artifacts were destroyed, or.. They were stolen. Some even sold for profit– The Mourn Watch has actually uncovered a number of them in relation to some hauntings in the past couple of years,” Emmrich crossed the room, folding his hands behind his back and looking out the window towards the street below. “Lucanis learned that Alexius’s amulet was one of the artifacts that was stolen– By venatori agents placed in the guard. They had been plotting to steal it for some time, but Nadia’s folly gave them the chance they needed to steal it. She had no idea beforehand, of course, and likely she still has no idea that those artifacts are still in circulation.” 

“Doesn’t that mean they’ve had the amulet for years, though? How come it hasn’t turned up before?” Neve looked at Lucanis.

“It was in the possession of.. Of Zara Renata.” Lucanis shifted uncomfortably, a flash of purple lighting up the veins of his eyes for a brief moment. Still, he swallowed and continued. “She was studying it, but we killed her. It changed hands a number of times, too, no one could crack how it functioned exactly. Until it made its way back into the hands of people who knew Alexius and could access his research.” 

“And who hadn’t been apprehended by Dorian or killed when the Evanuris had control of the Venatori… The ritual was a result of all that time, and stolen research. I sent word to Strife, he’s going to search the ritual site for the amulet.” Emmrich gave a smile– There was hope. A flicker, a tiny light in the dark, but it was hope. 

“But..” Lucanis heaved a thick sigh. “That doesn’t tell us how to use it, especially without all of Alexius’s research. Emmrich said you have some of it, though.”

“But we don’t have access to whatever advancements he made after Dorian left his tutelage.” Emmrich chimed in. “The venatori agents might though. Enough that we can figure out how the ritual worked with blood magic, so we can uncover how to do it without! This is the break we’ve been waiting for!”
“But then Why is Lucanis here? Not that I’m not glad, but a lot of that could have been a letter, right?” Neve asked. “It tells us what is happening, but how are we meant to get access to that research? Any venatori left have gone to ground, if they aren’t dead or imprisoned already.”

“When I was in Vyrantium, I found records of Venatori members, many of them matching the houses that had access to that research. I could have sent a letter, but I feared it might be discovered and derail any plans we make. I have the names of the people who have the rest of Alexius’s research. I can find them, and I will kill them and get that research.” Lucanis explained. “I came because I have a contract to propose.” 

“I can’t pay you–” Neve started. Her hope died as she realized this. Lucanis held up a hand sternly.

“I would ask for no money from such a dear friend. Maker knows I have more than enough. No, the payment for this contract would be thus: Use the research to get Rook back. That’s all you have to do, Neve.” Lucanis’s voice was certain. “Rook is our friend, after all. If anything, when they get back, I’ll make them pay me.” 

“Thank you, Lucanis, I can’t… I can’t even begin to–” She sniffled, not able to finish the sentence, but Lucanis still understood. 

He went to put a hand on her shoulder. As he did, he glanced down and noticed her half-drank cup of coffee, a few drops spilled on her notes. “One more thing for payment on that contract,” He amended. “Promise me you’ll stop drinking such terrible coffee.” 

Neve laughed through her tears, and something warm and comfortable settled in her chest.

***

Horsemaster Dennet’s herds had arrived for the inquisition, alongside a number of stablehands with supplies and schematics for saddles, basic armor, and other gear that could be requisitioned for the horses. Rook hadn’t felt so grateful in a while, because this meant traveling over the Frostbacks by horse and not by foot. Travel would still be slow but far more comfortable and convenient. In the breaks between gusts of terrible wind and wintery conditions, they could even take time to glance over the textbooks they’d brought with them. 

Cassandra had been concerned with them bringing any books along, saying it wasn’t practical at all to do such a thing, and if they were stranded she was going to use them as kindling. Varric had commented that Cassandra had such a disregard for literature even he was appalled by it– Rook had asked what Varric meant by this and Varric had simply muttered, “She stabbed my book” under his breath. Rook had decided that they would keep the books far from Cassandra, at that point. 

Grief had risen for them again like a net over bluefin but they had pushed it down. They remembered Emmrich and Harding, playfully arguing over the different supplies they were going to take on a camping trip to Fereldan. Harding had been appalled at how much Emmrich planned to take, books and a shaving kit, and Rook had laughed and teased the both of them, and for that moment their heart had been full and they had been happy. 

Rook wished they could feel the same now as Varric and Cassandra bickered, and while they almost felt the warmth, some of it was snuffed out by the memories. 

They were four days into the mountain, only a fifth of the way through their journey to Val Royeaux. There had been a couple of rifts on the way, which was slowing them down enough already. The sky was darkening now as the sun set. Clouds had formed and were sending down flurries of snow but there weren’t terrible winds and it could be colder. Rook was almost grateful for that. They found a rocky outcropping that was out of the way, Cassandra and some scouts setting to work in clearing enough snow to build a fire pit and pitch up tents. Rook went to hitch the horses up and take care of them as needed– Brushing snow off their coats, getting them food and water, checking their hooves. They brought someone to help take care of the horses, but helping wouldn’t hurt at all. 

Solas made his way over, his tall mare walking a pace behind. He had been having trouble with the creature on the journey. The mare was stubborn, stopping and starting to walk whenever she willed it and not when Solas asked, nearly tossing him on a hillside, and walking at a pace slower than the others. Solas seemed bemused by the animal’s behavior, but also very curious. The stablehand had been confused about it, asking Solas if he was nervous and she could be picking up on that, or something else. Rook figured it out quickly but didn’t want to say anything lest it be taken the wrong way: The mare didn’t trust Solas. 

She at least seemed happy when he filled up a bucket of water for her and set it at her feet. After that he took some steps back, giving her distance. 

“She’s still giving you trouble?” Rook asked, trying to keep their smile from getting too wide, or else they would laugh.

“She is willful.” Solas nodded his head. “It is a quality of youth, I think, but I do not mind. It is nice to know that living things other than people can have personality.” 

“I find a lot of people lack personality, anyway.” Rook joked, petting their own horse. Theirs was an older gelding, with a deep chestnut coat interrupted on the muzzle with patches of graying fur and a white bolt across its forehead. “She isn’t slowing us down as much as the snow and the Fade tears are, anyway.” 

“This much is true.” Solas nodded his agreement. “The rifts are probably all over the mountain, because of their proximity to the Breach. I suspect that is why we took this route over going north and by sea. The Inquisition will want to close them.”
“There’s probably dozens of rifts we’ll never be able to get to..” Rook looked over at the rest of the traveling party. Lavellan was by the fire, warming his hand. It glowed green, but the fire-pit was brighter than his hand. 

“They may heal on their own when the breach is sealed– or perhaps, if we cannot get to them, then any demons who emerge from them will not be able to threaten anyone else.” 

“I hope you’re right about that…” Rook sighed. “You really learned all this from traveling?”
“I learned from the Fade itself, and from dreaming.” Solas explained. Rook knew some of that was lies, but if he had only woken recently, and was so weak for it… Perhaps he had been dreaming for hundreds of years before he woke. Bellara once explained that the immortals would go into Uthenera when their time was done– A form of death, maybe, but it was an endless dream. If Mythal could watch as a fragment in the Fade, then surely Solas could watch from weakened sleep for a thousand years. 

“I could never do that– Too much insomnia.” Rook told Solas light-heartedly. They hadn’t always been like that– when they had been studying at the circle, they had many late nights, but aside from that it had been little trouble to sleep. Then, they had stopped Solas’s ritual, then they had gone to the Fade prison. Since then, sleep did not feel so safe, did not feel serene and isolated. It felt like they were willingly walking into some kind of danger because of it. Not to mention their nightmares.

“There are many ways to remedy that,” Solas did not seem to catch the joke entirely. “I could share them with you, if you wish.”

“I think I’m alright.” Having Solas in their head again was the last thing they wanted– They just hoped they hadn’t answered too quickly. They searched Solas’s expression but he didn’t seem to react.

“Very well.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The others might have better methods than I do.”

“Actually, I bet you have better advice for trying to stay awake if you’re used to sleeping so much.” Rook tilted their head.

“Usually I have no issue, but as a last resort, I will drink tea.” Solas made a face, nose wrinkling up and his mouth pressed into a tight scowl. 

“Not a tea-drinker, huh?” Rook observed. Somehow they took solace in that. Solas hating tea was almost amusing, considering that they loved it and would drink it whenever possible.

“No, not particularly.” Solas answered with a shake of his head. 

“To each their own.” Rook shrugged and walked away, heading over to the rest of the group and sitting down by the fire. 

Cassandra was stirring something in a large pot, which steam rose from steadily. It was bubbling, some kind of stew that was easy and quick to make, but that they could keep supplies on hand for that wouldn’t go bad and attract any wildlife.

“So are we cooking on a rotation?” Rook asked as they sat down. They remembered a similar conversation among their own team as they started to acquire more members, and the weekly shopping lists that got updated every so often. 

“I fear those with experience will be doing most of the cooking around here,” Cassandra answered. “Varric apparently knows nothing of cooking– Too used to the Hanged man.”

“I’ll tell you now I have a habit of burning things in the field, I’m much better in a proper kitchen.” Rook informed Cassandra. She gave them a scornful look, but it seemed exaggerated. She wasn’t that bothered or serious. “I can try my best, I promise.”

“Right. Well, we will put you to the test. We have another week and a half of travel before we reach Val Royeaux, and after the mountains I fear Rifts will be the least of our troubles.” 

“Oh, goodie.” Rook sighed.

“Try not to sound too excited, Rook, leave some joy for the rest of us.” Varric quipped from his spot. “And I do know how to cook, but supplies here and supplies in Kirkwall are not the same. I still don’t see why we didn’t take the sea-route. It’s much safer.” 

“If you know how to swim,” Rook muttered under their breath.

“Because I wanted to close any rifts we came across in the pass,” Lavellan answered louder, saving Rook from any questioning looks. “And to be honest, I get sea-sick.”

Cassandra scoffed and put the wooden ladle she was using to the side. 

“It’s probably easier this way anyway, for the Inquisition’s resources. We have horses, but we don’t have ships yet, do we?”

“Yet?” Cassandra tilted her head. “You see it as inevitable?”

“Of course. I mean, for travel, or anything like that. There are rifts as far as Kirkwall, aren’t there? We’ll have to get Lavellan there somehow.” Rook pointed out.

“I… Suppose you are correct.” Cassandra agreed.

“Let’s avoid Kirkwall until the mage-templar conflict is solved, yes? And the Chantry, for that matter,” Lavellan groaned. 

“I’m inclined to agree.” Cassandra conceded. 

“So mystery ration stew it is!” Rook declared. Cassandra rolled her eyes, and returned to stirring.

***

Val Royeaux was far grander than Rook had been preparing for. The gilded towers and marble statues made much of Minrathous look dank and ancient (and it was dank and ancient, but the Magisters had restored much of it to make it a cesspool of luxury and displays of wealth). The White Spire and Grand Cathedral were visible over it all, as well as the Palace. So many great buildings, demonstrations of the complicated but renowned Orlesian architecture stood on the iconic skyline of Val Royeaux. 

After two weeks traveling through the mountains and a countryside ravaged by Civil war– Rook was actually a bit glad for the view. Lavellan looked at it all with a star-struck expression. It was like nothing that he had ever seen before, and anyone who took a glance at his expression would know it. None of the Marcher city-states compared, and Haven was a town of hovels and shacks next to Val Royeaux. The only parts of it that were remotely similar would be the Alienage, but much of it was hidden from public eyes, like Orlais’ big secret. Especially after many of the Alienages had been purged and burned for the sake of the war.

(It would all be destroyed by blight and war in eleven years. There was probably no salvaging much of it after that.)

They left their horses at the gates. A number of scouts and soldiers had gone ahead to get the lay of the land (or city, as the case may be) and find out what was happening. They started up the path from the gates. They were armed from traveling through dangerous territory, and the weapons did bring a lot of staring from bystanders and guardsmen. Many of them particularly lingered on Lavellan, Rook, and Solas’s staves. Many more on Lavellan’s glowing hand, which he kept close to his side in an attempt to smother and hide the bright green light.

“The city still Mourns..” Cassandra observed.

Some people that they passed gasped and stumbled back, almost… afraid. They didn’t know what to think, but their rag-tag group was practically scandalous to anyone in noble circles. 

“Just a guess, Seeker, but I think they know who we are…” Varric murmured.

“Your skills of observation never fail to impress me, Varric.” Cassandra drawled sarcastically. Just as they took another few steps, a scout came running. She was half out of breath but she kneeled before the group and put a hand to her chest.

“My lord herald!” Lavellan flinched at the address. Cassandra covered for him.

“You’re one of Leliana’s people! What have you found?” She asked and motioned for the scout to speak.

“The chantry mothers await you, but so have a great many templars!” She informed, with little regard for who might overhear– A young and eager recruit, then. 

“There are templars here?” Cassandra was shocked. Rook looked around nervously– Would there be fighting? In a city, in the streets? That would go poorly for anyone involved, and especially for the Inquisition's reputation– They tried to remember the history, remember what they heard about what happened with the Chantry Mothers in Val Royeaux. 

“They seem to think the templars will protect them– From the Inquisition!” she answered Cassandra’s baffled question. “They’ve gathered on the other side of the market– I think that’s where the templars intend to meet you.” The scout stood and moved to make way for the group.

“Only one thing to do, then.” Cassandra looked to Lavellan and then the others, words seeming to strengthen her resolve in some way. 

“What exactly do you mean?” Rook found themself asking.

“We have to find out what’s happened… They wish to protect the people, from us?” Cassandra looked at the scout again, who simply nodded with a nervous expression on her face. 

“You think maybe the order’s returned to the fold, Seeker? To deal with us upstarts?” Varric suggested, but even he did  not sound certain that that was the case.

“I know Lord Seeker Lucius– I can’t imagine him coming to the Chantry’s Defense– Not after all that has occurred.” Cassandra gave a firm shake of the head, she was certain in that. 

“How certain are you about that, Seeker?” Rook asked. “Maybe the Templars think they can get something from the Chantry if they return and help now?”

“We knew there would be some kind of reaction,” Lavellan pointed out. “But they wouldn’t attack us in the middle of the market, would they?”

“I don’t know– Return to Haven,” Cassandra looked at the scout. “Someone will have to inform them if we are… delayed.” She hesitated. Finding a polite way to say “attacked by templar fools” was difficult.

“I don’t like the look of this, Seeker.” Varric said quietly as they continued up the path. It was lined with looming statues, figures from Andrastian Faith, with inscriptions on plaques at the bottom– some of them had little spots of graffiti on them which Rook glanced over with amusement. They came to the market square, which had shops and stands, but most seemed… Empty. Instead a crowd had gathered on the other side of the massive windmill in the center of it all, heeding the words of the Revered mother standing on a wooden platform with fellow members of the chantry. Rook looked up at it all, and it all seemed so fanciful. The crowd and the mothers, like figureheads from a story, giving grand speeches. Under the distorted light of the Breach, though, the chantry mothers in their big hats and brightly colored robes looked far more like Fereldan court jesters, than they did women of Faith. 

“People of Val Royeaux, hear me!” The chantry mother called above the crowd. She spoke in trade– a deliberate show, for all in the crowd would be able to speak Orlesian. “Together, we mourn our Divine. Her naive and beautiful heart, silenced by treachery . You wonder what will become of her murderer?”  She looked to the crowd, making eye contact with a number of them, letting her words sink in for dramatic effect– For a priestess, she would make a good politician, Rook thought. “Well! Wonder no more!” She pointed at Lavellan, who stood in the crowd now, which had parted around their small party and shot them nervous glances. They erupted in murmurs and whispers as the mother gestured. “Behold the so-called Herald of Andraste! Claiming to rise, where our beloved… fell.” 

She looked down regretfully and clutched her palm to her chest. It was a mockery, one that Rook dearly wished to call out, but Lavellan stepped forward. They remembered themself– they weren’t the leader here, not yet. 

“We say this is a false prophet! The Maker would send no elf in our hour of need!” she spat the word like it was foul water in her mouth, and her expression changed from somber and mournful to bitter, accusing. The crowd around them gasped and some shuffled away. The mother watched, eyes narrowed. Rook detected satisfaction on her face, however. 

“You say I am the enemy!” Lavellan stepped forward, taking a breath and speaking above the jeers of the crowd. “I am an elf, yes! I am Dalish! I do not believe in your Maker, I do not claim to be Andraste’s Herald! I do not know how this mark came to me.” He held up his hand and it glowed like a beacon, brighter than the sun it flashed and wavered with light. “But I believe in peace. I believe in the Inquisition, and our goal! The Breach in the sky is our true enemy!” He pointed to it, and it seemed to pulse in response, an eye opened and glaring down with burning hate. “We must unite to stop it!”
“It’s true!” Cassandra added her voice to Lavellan’s. This brought some surprised gasps from people around– From the people who recognized her, the Right Hand of the martyred Divine. “The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness, before it is too late!” 

She tried to be confident in her words, as Lavellan was, but it was a prayer, a plea, a shout into the darkness with hopes that light would answer in more than an echo.

“It is already too late!” The mother snapped, and pointed. The sound of metal armor clanking, heavy marching footsteps as armed warriors approached– Templars. Rook could feel the lyrium-ring in the air off of them, like alcohol on an addict’s breath, but instead empty whispers through the veil reaching out to their innate magic. “The templars have returned to the chantry! They will face this “Inquisition”, and the people will be safe once more!” She declared, stepping back, but the crowd was panicking, worrying. The templars approached with a menacing aura that did not set their fears to rest and hope to rise, no, Lord Seeker Lucius, a man with grey hair and a pinched face and scarred skin stomped his way up onto the platform with a tightened fist. He walked past her without even sparing a glance, and a man in a templar robe came up behind the chantry mother, raising his fist to the sky– And bringing it hard down on the woman’s head. 

She cried out, tumbling to the ground from the blow. Cassandra and Lavellan started, taking a few steps forward. Rook nearly drew their blade but felt Varric’s hand suddenly on their own, pushing it down. He looked up at them briefly. He was uncertain, and thought it was best to wait. But there was tension thick as blood in the air. 

“Still yourself! She is beneath us.” Lucius spoke in a gravely, nasally voice. He faced another templar, a man with dark skin and wide eyes, looking shocked and appalled at what had just happened– He hadn’t known this was coming, not in the slightest. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Lavellan approached. “You assaulted that woman! Is this your idea of justice? Of Duty? Part of the chantry or no, are the templars here turning to wanton violence as well? Are you not here to deal with the Inquisition?”

“As if there were any reason to.” He rolled his eyes and marched off the platform, his entourage of templars following suit. 

“Lord Seeker Lucius–” Cassandra began.

“You will not address me,” The Lord Seeker snapped. It reminded Rook so painfully of the First Warden, and his rage and his arrogance in the face of all the danger that Rook warned him against– before he went made from the Blight, the Calling, and Ghilain’an’s torture. (Perhaps they should have reasoned with him– Maybe they should have made peace, instead of punching him in the face.) 

“Lord Seeker?” Cassandra followed and she looked lost. Rook took the chance, going up to the platform.

“Are you okay?” Rook spoke softly, half listening to the conversation on their periphery. The chantry mother looked at him, holding her head from the pain but managing to glare with hate regardless. “Let me help you.” 

“Rook?” Varric questioned, but was more focused on The Lord Seeker than anything else at the moment. 

“Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s Prophet. You should be ashamed!” Lucius scolded. Cassandra’s eyes went a bit wide. “You should all be ashamed!” He addressed the crowd. “The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!” He looked at Lavellan, then, at his staff and his armor, clearly marking him out as a mage. A mage and an elf, the two worst things to be in Southern Thedas. “You are the ones who have failed! You wou’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear! If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late! The only destiny here that demands respect is mine .” 

He snarled on the last word, and Rook knew he was just the same kind of man as the First Warden- all he needed was a ridiculous moustache. 

“Then why are you here?” Lavellan asked. “If you’re not here to help the chantry, then did you come to make speeches? To gloat, to threaten?”

“I came to see what frightens old women so,” Lucius sneered. “And to laugh.”

“But Lord Seeker–” The templar from earlier began, speaking carefully, someone who had been reprimanded for speaking out of turn before. “What if he really was sent by the Maker, what if–”

The templar who struck the chantry mother interrupted, “You are called to a higher purpose! Do not question.” 

“I will make the templar order a power that stands alone against the Void. We deserve recognition! Independence!” 

Rook could practically laugh. As if people did not see the Templars as their own entity before, as if the people did not fear them as a policing force and somehow respect them for enforcing the backwards treatment of mages. As if they were not tyrants and torturers and jailers to dozens, hundreds of mages in the south, and the greatest fear of anyone in the north. 

Lucius continued his rant. “You have shown me nothing!And the Inquisition? Less than nothing!” 

Loyal templars put their hands to their chest, to their hearts, showing fealty to the corrupt man. “ Templars! Val Royeaux is beneath our protection! We march!”

He turned, and march they did. 

Varric went over to the group and Lavellan sighed as he turned to them.

“Charming Fellow, isn’t he?” Varric started with clear sarcasm.

“Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad?” Cassandra watched the retreating templars. There was something so lost in her expression, Rook didn’t know what to do with it.

“Do you know him very well?” Lavellan asked.

“He took over the Seekers of Truth Two years ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert’s death. He was always a decent man… Never given to ambition and grandstanding.” from that display, Rook had a hard time believing that. “This is very bizarre.”

Perhaps Bizarrely stupid, for such a leader to make the choice to leave the people he claimed to protect. 

“Do you think he can be reasoned with, then?” Lavellan pressed.

“I don’t think the Lord Seeker is just having a bad day and can be talked out of it, Handy,” Varric muttered. 

“He seems stubborn.” Solas observed. 

Rook wanted to rage, to explode, because the exchange of words was just so backwards to their perception of Varric and Solas. Varric who had died trying to talk down someone he knew (thought he knew), and Solas, who had been too damn stubborn to give up until they had found a way to partially bring back a goddess to release him… Rook said nothing. They watched.

“I hope so..” Cassandra relented that she had no clue. “If not him, there are surely others in the order who don’t feel as he does!”That much was clear from the questioning templar, but a dog may hesitate before it bites. “Either way, we should first return to Haven, and inform the others.” 

Lavellan turned, going back to the platform and the revered mother.

“This victory must please you greatly, Seeker Cassandra,” Mother Hevara said bitterly. 

“We came here only seeking to speak with the mothers. This is not our doing, but yours,” Cassandra responded, in such a tone that she left no room for question. Not of her, nor her resolve.

“And you had no part in forcing our hand? Do not delude yourself.” She attempted, but the effort seemed to fall flat. The crowd had dispersed, leaving only inquisition and chantry members. “Now we have been shown up by our own templars, in front of everyone! And my fellow revered mothers have scattered to the winds, along with their convictions! Just tell me one thing.” She leveled her stare at Lavellan, though she did squint, like looking at the sun. “Are you the maker’s chosen, as so many claim?”

The question caught, pinning Lavellan down with her stare and her words. 

“No.” Lavellan answered simply. “I don’t believe that.”

“That is… More comforting than you might imagine.” She sighed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now… We shall see what the Maker plans for the days to come.” 

“What do you believe?” Lavellan asked; a counter question.

“Our divine, Her Holiness, is dead. I have seen evidence for everything except what would comfort me,” She seemed to tremble with the admission.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“For you to be true..” Hevara sighed. “A great many things must be false. And if you are false, a great many things must have failed… There is chaos ahead, whatever your intentions.”

“We just want to help.” Lavellan knelt down. “Rook, can you help her?”

“Yes.” Rook went over. “Can I see your injury? You were hit hard.”

“I do not need your help,” she practically hissed.

“Your reverence, I think you do.” Rook reached out, calling magic to their fingertips. They glowed a gentle green and before the revered mother could protest much or stop them, their magic had healed the bruise that was forming and any concussion that was beginning.

“A mage!” She gasped. 

“Yes. And I have healed you.” Rook stood. “No need to thank me.” Rook stepped back, glancing around. They had a sinking feeling this was about to get ugly. 

“You– You’re a rebel, you have to be! You are the cause of all this misery!”
“I am not.” Rook stated simply.

“Neither am I.” Lavellen stepped up. “We are here to help, and neither myself nor Rook have lived in a circle, and until the conclave, neither of us had even really encountered a templar up close. My magic has never done more than protect myself and my clan, never been more than a shield.”

“And what lengths would you go to, to protect yourself and your people? A Maleficar may say the blood he’s spilt is justified, and none would be the wiser!” She pushed herself to her feet, gasping, eyes wide and… she was afraid.

“Then we will meet the justice of the Maker.” Rook said simply. “Or we shall repent. But as neither of us have done such a wrong, you are not able to make a judgement of us. But one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats, over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker’s Law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker’s Benediction.” It was a part of transfigurations that was newer to Rook, one they had learned when speaking to Harding. 

Hevara glared. She had probably not been the one getting scripture quoted at her before. Maybe it stung a little– Rook was kind of glad, it felt nice and justified.

“Very well.” Hevara sighed. “We are all children of the maker. I thank you, then, for mending my wounds.”

“You’re welcome.” Rook said simply, before heading down the platform to leave. Lavellan gladly followed, then took the lead. As they passed through the market, a woman in a mask that covered most of her face and a rather fancy dress waved them down, getting their attention.

“Excuse me, but.. Is what they’re saying real? The Inquisition’s going to fix the hole in the sky?” She spoke in trade, but was hesitant, her accent thick.

“That’s what we’re attempting, yes,” Lavellan confirmed.

“No one is doing anything!” She gasped out. “The chantry’s useless, and the templars…. Andraste, I never thought they’d abandon us!” She sighed, then seemed to stand up straighter. She looked Lavellan in the eyes and this seemed to startle him. He glanced at Rook and shifted on his feet, not sure what to do with the sign of respect. “Listen, your camp will need food. I have contacts, we’ll have deliveries there in days.”

“You want to help the Inquisition..?” Cassandra asked, incredulous. 

“Never been part of something this big before, but… If your inquisition’s going to seal the sky, I want to help.” She seemed certain of that much, and even if Lavellan told her no, Rook had a feeling she would get involved somehow.

“Cassandra? What do you think?” Lavellan wasn’t certain– He didn’t know if he could make a real decision when it wasn’t to do with fighting, or wasn’t a split-second, had-to-be-done kind of thing. This was different. 

“I think the woman is asking you,” Cassandra told him. The door was open. He was about to become Inquisitor by everything except name. 

“Well, he is–”

“The Herald of Andraste, yes, I understand.” She was trying (and sort of failing) to keep sarcasm from her voice. “Haven is a mess, but we won’t turn away anyone willing to help. Invite her, if it pleases you.” She realized Lavellan looked lost, worried with slightly wide eyes and a closed off stance– he wanted to lead but needed a push, a guiding hand.

“Head to Haven, then,” Lavellan told the woman. His voice was stronger, genuine, not just a speech made in the thick of a moment with a near-bloodthirsty crowd gathered or templars looming from a platform. “We need good people.”

“I… don’t know if I’m that,” she seemed flustered. “But.. It will be good to see. She gave Lavellan a hopeful smile, about the only part of her expression that was visible with the mask. He gave one back, and stepped away. He stood taller now, shoulders back, power unveiled and purpose renewed. This was the Inquisition, and they were in Val Royeaux to start saving the world. 

Rook was about to question how they were going to do that with an adventuring party of only four other people, when an arrow fell from the sky like a star from above, and slammed into the bricks at Lavellan’s feet.

Chapter Text

“An arrow!? With a message?” Cassandra gasped, rather startled by what had at first seemed like a near-miss with an archer assassin. Instead the arrow had landed safely at their feet with a note tied to it with a thick piece of twine. 

Lavellan bent down. “Weird… It must be for us, though, right? I mean the timing..” he picked it up, scanning the rooftops– But the mystery archer was already gone. He untied the note, and unravelled it– It had been folded up in a complex and frankly nonsensical way. The paper was all crinkled by the time Lavellan managed to get it open and read off the page, the margins covered in doodles and sketches. “People say you’re special. I want to help, and I can bring everyone… But who..?” he shook his head and kept reading. “There’s a baddie in Val Royeaux. I hear he wants to hurt you!?” 

“That’s alarming, but considering that people are practically lining up to be your enemy..” Varric pointed out.

“..You’re right,” Lavellan granted, and kept reading the rest of the message. “Have a search for the red things in the market, the dock, and ‘round the cafe, and maybe you’ll meet him. Bring swords… And there’s uh, a drawing here. Kind of scribbly, though.”

Rook could have sworn they heard someone in a thick Fereldan accent say “Heyyy” from someplace in the shadows, but the others didn’t look up and notice it. 

So they were on a scavenger hunt. Lavellan had to convince Cassandra that it would be worth it to see who this had come from– They could help, or if there was someone threatening him in Val Royeaux, they could put a stop to it. Cassandra had conceded, and off they went to hunt. Lavellan went with Cassandra to search the docks, and Varric and Solas had gone to the cafe– Varric muttered about getting Solas to try something sweet for once, and that Orlesian tiny cakes would be just the thing. Solas seemed incredulous but had little room to disagree. This left Rook on their own, and… 

They didn’t mind. They started searching the market, not seeing much. There was a stall selling red handkerchiefs, but they had a feeling poking around there would be fruitless. Instead they wandered around, taking a look at it all. To think, in their time all of this was destroyed, gone, and it may be in the process of being rebuilt… the land would be scarred with the memory of Blight and death. Rook found a bench, taking a seat on it and looking at their hands. The market was alive, bustling with people going about daily shopping. They saw peasants and elves darting around with shopping lists and wicker baskets of produce, young couples going in the direction of the café hand in hand. A chanter tried to chant, but his voice sounded down-trodden, stumbling over the verses with uncertainty. His faith was broken by the halo of green in the sky. 

The breach… it almost reminded them of the feeling of the Archon’s palace at their back. Floating over the city of Minrathous, separated from it all and looking down on the masses. A crown jewel on top of Tevinter’s biggest cesspool of greed and corruption. Then, it had been turned on its own people. At least the Magisterium was known to be against its own people, only the elite could truly prosper in Tevinter– Until Dorian really made his waves. Still, in Orlais, the game was betrayal, secrets and lies behind one another's back, constantly with everyone checking themselves. The Grand Cathedral loomed over Val Royeaux, giving them an excuse to claim holiness and to claim absolution from the corruption of the city.

Rook stood up, renewing their search of the market. They decided it would help to do a sweep of the upper levels, though. It didn’t take much looking, the upper areas were empty of people and there was a red scarf wrapped up by the railing beneath a window. Rook picked it up, unraveling the knitted fabric to reveal a note. It was torn from another page, the corner had ornate gold lines that swirled and interlocked with one another. There was writing in one hand, starting in the middle of a sentence, “...And we are to obey well. We will meet at three bells to best discuss how to serve the new way.” Rook tilted their head, reading over it again. It made no sense, and then beneath there was a clarifying message (although their spelling was lacking), “Herald go at time. Praise Adrast.” 

“Okay..? Guess I’ll bring this, maybe it’ll make sense with the others.” Rook was curious about what the other clues would be… Neve would love this. It was a simple mystery, but with enough pieces that she would be excited to chase after the answers. They’d follow her around dock-town chasing leads for the rest of their life, if they had the chance. But she was… And they were…

They needed to sit down again. Emotion rolled over them and they found the nearest stone bench and sat down. There were people below who could see and hear them, so they had to keep it all contained, quiet. This was perhaps the worst place for them to fall apart or dare show vulnerability. Still, it was overwhelming, the only thoughts in their head were about Neve. 

When they first met in Dumat Plaza, her confident stance and sharp attitude. Her kindness when they had first woken up, not commenting much on their strange behavior because they’d been hallucinating Varric. Taking them to investigate newspapers in Dock-town— She hadn’t needed to do that. She could have solved it on her own, but she invited them along still because they wanted to be useful. They had gone to Minrathous expecting gilded streets and hope, change flickering on the horizon and glittering on the ocean waves. Instead they’d found depravity, ignorance, struggle and strife, but then, through it all, Neve had been the gold in Minrathous all along. She was the light.

If she were out there now, and she had to be, she would be doing everything to get Rook back. Rook couldn’t slow down and give up now, then. 

“Bring the light…” Rook murmured to themself, standing up and going down the stairs to find the others. 

They found the group quickly– Lavellan, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric were standing in a circle speaking softly to one another near the entrance to the market, all with varying levels of concern in their expressions. Rook frowned and made their way over. 

“What’s going on?” Rook asked, trying not to startle them when they approached.

“Oh, there you are, Rook,” Lavellan smiled and looked up. “Sorry, we were.. Discussing. We found the notes but as we were talking, we were approached by Enchanter Fiona.”

“She wasn’t at the conclave?” Rook knew she hadn’t been, but the Inquisition didn’t need to know that. It would look extra suspicious now.

“No, she sent a retainer in her place… She invited us to Redcliffe to negotiate with the mages.” Cassandra explained. “I’m weary of the whole thing. First, the Lord Seeker’s display today, and now Fiona approaches? Here, of all places?”

“Redcliffe is really far from here, but considering the White Spire…” Rook looked over their shoulder. 

“Historically, Redcliffe has been a place of some neutrality.” Solas mentioned. “But it is weeks away from here.”

“When we go back to Haven, I’ll discuss with the others.” Lavellan decided. “It’s a good idea, and at least Fiona is open to talking to us. That’s more than we can say for the templars.”

“Even without the Lord Seeker, they’d be weary,” Rook pointed out.
“That doesn’t really make me feel better.” Lavellan looked down. For a brief moment he was far more familiar– Rook had the sense that this Lavellan was younger, newer, not tested in the trials of leadership even if he was meant to be his Keeper’s first and next to lead. He hadn’t yet had to make any hard decisions– But they were soon to come, and Lavellan was seeming to realize this. He was staring the grimness of the situation in the face, and for that brief flicker of a moment, he looked much older, world-wise and battle tested. He lacked the scars and the age but Rook saw that the Lavellan that was a leader… He was already there, waiting to be tested. 

“Should we leave immediately?” Cassandra asked. Despite being in a position where she could lead, she didn’t even think to default to doing so. Maybe she was scared of it, maybe she knew somewhere inside that Lavellan was meant for it.

“No, we’re already here. We have that invitation to Madame de fer’s chateau, and… we have these clues from the arrow. Let’s put them together, see what we can do.” Lavellan looked around at the group. “We may as well focus on the job right in front of us.”

“I found a clue in the upper markets,” Rook volunteered. “Seems like some kind of meeting time, but I don’t know where and how to get in.”

“Easily rectified, here,” Cassandra held up a note and a key. “Lavellan and I found a key.”

“We found a note mentioning a third passage, and a Lady Keris,” Solas mentioned.

“And some gossip at the café. I forgot how Orlesians can get,” Varric laughed. “But hunting for handkerchiefs is better than hunting for wyverns, I’ll tell you that much.”

“What? When were you hunting for wyverns?” Rook asked, eyebrows shooting up. Varric started to tell the tale as Cyrith led the way. Rook didn’t remember being told it before, so was happy to listen. They.. had really missed Varric’s stories. Missed hearing friends tell tales, tall and true, it passed the time and made the world feel more full. They remembered swapping stories of bad jobs with Davrin and Lucanis over bad wine and drunkenly cooked food. Stories with monsters, murder, mayhem. From Varric’s opening line, Rook was hooked. It was good to hear a story that didn’t end sooner than expected.

***

The streets were dark and it was half-way to the third bell.  Lavellan led part of the way, but had to concede leadership instead to Cassandra and Varric. After moving through a maze-like pattern of alleyways and side streets, Lavellan had to admit he had barely spent time in any city, let alone one so dense as Val Royeaux. Cassandra was familiar with the city’s layout, Varric was familiar with “under the table business”, which was his polite way of saying he had managed criminal networks and back-street deals. 

“I think we’re almost there.” Varric looked behind at the group, pulling Bianca off his back. “We should get ready. There’s probably trouble ahead.”
“I still think this might be a trap,” Cassandra muttered and drew her sword. Lavellan got out his staff and moved ahead. 

“Pretty likely.” Lavellan agreed, but he still moved forward and crossed the next threshold into another alleyway. The buildings of Val Royeaux loomed above, cavernous walls of marble and brick, white grey and blue and gold, decadence masking all the danger. Even this part of town was made to be beautiful, the space between villas occupied by servants and normal townspeople, but still it had to be intricate and graceful to look at, perhaps hiding the poverty that lurked behind the walls of the apartments and smaller homes. 

It didn’t hide the thugs lurking ahead, who attacked immediately upon being seen.

“It’s the Herald!” One of them shouted, clumsily dashing forward with a sword. Lavellan threw up a barrier that it bounced off uselessly. 

“Stop them! How did they find–” Another said while attacking, but found themself run through by Cassandra’s blade. 

As soon as blood was spilled, chaos broke out. They were evenly numbered but not evenly matched. Not with three mages, a hero to Orlais, and any fight with Bianca involved was automatically unfair. The thugs attacked in a frenzy, one of them already laying dead. Lavellan avoided killing the first who had attacked him, but was forced to as he got backed into a corner. He sent out a wave of fire, heat and force shoving the man back. He was a corpse before he hit the ground, armor and clothes charred, unrecognizable. A thick smell filled the air and Lavellan cringed but moved on, staff spinning in an arch through the air to knock back one of the two remaining thugs. 

Rook leapt in. A good time as any to really test the new staff on something other than demons, and in conditions that weren’t so cold that their hands hurt. They twirled it in practiced motions, feeling the weight shift and spin before they brought the staff blade down. It didn’t quite meet the ground, instead they channeled their mana through it. Runes sang and their magic resonated down the staff and came out the blade with a symphony of crackling ice, turning the last thug into a frozen, shiny statue 

“Ugh..” Lavellan sighed. “That takes care of that– But I have a feeling that none of these people were in charge.” he turned, looking at the great blue door that cut off the rest of the alley. “This must be what the key is for. Let’s see where it leads.”

He went to the doors, which utterly dwarfed him. The others fell into line behind him, ready to follow, ready to answer at his word without even particularly thinking of it. It hadn’t been long but there was at least a sense of loyalty towards Lavellan. 

If Rook was stuck in this time, it was reassuring to be with such a group. 

Lavellan opened the doors. Rook hung back with the others, and watched. It felt a bit wrong, something screaming in their gut to move, to step through first. Some part of them that was so used to leading and stepping up and taking the hit. Going through a door first in a dark alley was their job most of the time. 

Heat and fire rushed over Lavellan’s head. A thickly Orlesian voice snarled as Lavellan gasped and dodged another orb of fire. 

“Herald of Andraste!” the stranger snarled. “The resources used to discover me must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably!” 

“What?” Lavellan reached for his staff but thought better of it. Rook moved in closer, seeing that it was a tall Orlesian man in fancy robe and mask, standing with carefully posed legs as though he were a dancer or a bird of paradise. “I don’t know who you are–”

“You don’t fool me! I’m too important for this to be an accident!” he snapped, putting his hands on his hips. Rook nearly scoffed. The man sounded familiar, like a venatori. At the end of the day, the same language of power had raised up Oresian nobles as it did the magisters of the Venatori. “My efforts will survive against you in victories elsewhere!”

Lavellan was about to respond, but one of the guards with the raving noble cried out and dropped to his knees. Rook followed his gaze, ready for a fight. Instead a deep feminine voice called over the gasps and the din of late-night Val Royeaux.

“Just say what!” An elven woman with choppy blond hair and a strikingly red tunic aimed a bow at the noble, the string pulled taught and a wicked grin on her freckled face. 

“What is the meaning of–” The noble turned, but was stopped short by the arrow flying. It struck true, right in the noble’s mouth. He collapsed and choked wetly on blood and the arrow through the back of his throat. 

“Eugh!” The new stranger exclaimed. “Squishy one, but you heard me, right?” She went over, yanking the arrow out of the now dead man’s head. It squelched uncomfortably, blood spurting. She seemed unbothered, placing the arrow back in her quiver. “Just say ‘What’... Rich tits always try for more than they deserve. ‘Blah, blah, blah! Obey me! Arrow in my face!” She laughed and turned to face the group properly. “So! You followed the notes well enough!”

Lavellan took a step back, looking incredibly baffled. The woman’s gaze flicked up and down and took him in. 

“I–” he started to say, but she continued.

“Glad to see you’re…” She trailed off as her eyes reached Lavellan’s face, tattooed with swirling dark-blue ink and his ears clearly pointed. “Aaaand you’re an elf. Great. Hope you’re not too… elfy.” She glanced at the rest of them. “And the lot of you, too.”

Solas made an expression that was downright disgusted and offended. Rook shrugged. They weren’t entirely certain where they fell on the scale of “Elfiness”, but before they could make a smart comment, she continued to speak.

“I mean, it’s all good innit? The Important thing is: You glow? You’re the Herald thingy?” 

Lavellan blinked. Then shrugged. “Sure, I glow.” he held up his marked hand, and her eyes followed it like a moth to flame, something in her expression that was hard to read. It was less than worship but adjacent to awe, like a question being answered and not the one she had asked aloud. “What’s going on? Who are you?”

“No idea!” She laughed, and looked at the felled noble. “I don’t know this idiot from manners. My people just said the Inquisition should look at him.”

“Your people..? Elves?” Lavellan asked. She laughed again, bouncing a little on her feet and waving a hand. 

“No! People people!” she clarified, though it really made nothing clearer. “Name’s Sera!” She pointed at herself with her thumb to her chest. “This is cover, get round it! For the reinforcements! Someone tipped me their equipment shed.”

Lavellan’s eyes widened. So did Rook, left with no time to contemplate this stranger (a song came to mind, one they’d heard played in the streets of Treviso and even Minrathous– Sera Was Never? Was this the Sera that… well, was never.), they drew their weapon. 

Sera didn’t react much to that. She looked around conspiratorially instead. “They’ve got no breeches!” 

As if on cue, a group of armed guards burst through the door on the other side of the secluded courtyard. None of them had breeches. Rook tried to hold in their laughter, but couldn’t. They had to lean on their staff for a moment. It was a startling moment of clear joy that struck through the gloomy haze that kept their eyelids heavy and shoulders aching. It was stupid and simple, but seeing the guards rush in, swords bared and all other armor on except their breaches, it just made them laugh. It was absurd and they couldn’t not react.

“Why didn’t you take their weapons!?” Lavellan called over the immediate sounds of fighting, throwing up some barriers and bracing his staff. 

Sera giggled madly, hopping out of the way of a blade and firing a volley of arrows in rapid succession– Her accuracy and speed almost put Bianca to shame. 

“Because no breeches!” Sera answered, jumping on top of some crates.

“This is ridiculous!” Rook laughed, sending a blast of electric magic through a couple of the guards. Their bodies were thrown back by the violent contraction of their muscles. Rook almost couldn’t focus, each time they looked up on the encroaching enemy they were brought to laughter by the sight. Sera laughed as well, but her joy seemed to fuel her, not distracting her as she fired arrow after arrow. There were a lot more guards than she was probably accounting for, but they weren’t having much trouble between spells and training. 

But a stray spell or blow from a weapon was a deadly thing. The crates that Sera was perched on and firing arrows from (She was like a really spindly walking Ballista), toppled over. She was sent tumbling to the ground with a startled cry, very likely to meet the blade of a pantsless guard– Not the ideal way to go in Rook’s opinion. So they spun, blasting the guard they had been fighting away with a wave of magic before rushing and pulling mana to their fingers, weaving a spell and pulsing it through the end of their staff they yanked up and their magic dragged the guard off their feet and into the air. 

With their own strength it would be impossible to toss a fully grown human man around like a flailing, naked cat, but their magic pulled from the fade. Reality was warped and discordant there, easy to manipulate. They threw the guard hard, smashing his body into the ground with a meaty thud as though he had fallen instead from a great height. Sera watched with wide eyes for a moment but then jumped to her feet and knocked an arrow.

“Wicked!” She decided, though there had been fear in her eyes moments before. She didn’t have to go back to fighting, because there wasn’t anyone left now to fight. All the guards were dispatched or had smartly retreated. She caught her breath, looking around the ruined courtyard. “Friends really came through with that tip! No breeches!” She laughed again, loud and free. Rook couldn’t help but smile at it. 

Once she was done laughing, Sera turned, and looked Lavellan up and down again. She didn’t seem as incredulous now. Nothing like fighting at someone’s side to make you warm up to someone– Even for a certain ice mage Rook knew. (Maker, they missed Neve.)

“So, Herald of Andraste… You’re a strange one!” She declared, and put her hands on her hips. “I’d like to join.” She stated it boldly, leveling Lavellan with a confident look. Her accent was thick, she was kind of violent, and had a bit of rude humor… But her jovial attitude and bright eyes.. They did remind Rook a lot of Bellara. 

“Could we take a few moments for sense to reassert itself?” Lavellan was still catching up with Sera, clearly. Rook wasn’t sure what there was to question– Sera knew people, somewhere, who had information and could help. Her friends, who made sure she could steal breeches off guards unscathed. That seemed like someone who had skills for the inquisition and a drive to do some good. “Who are you people?”

“I’m not people!” She corrected. “But, I get what you want… It’s like this: I sent you a note to look for hidden stuff by my friends– The Friends of Red Jenny. That’s me! Well..” She adjusted her sleeves. “I’m one. So’s a fence in Montfort, some woman in Kirkwall. There were three in Starkhaven– Brothers or somethin’! It’s just a name, yeah? It lets little people, “Friends” be part of something while they stick it to nobles they hate.”

Like the Shadow Dragons, if they were maybe a lot more disorganized and a lot less about freeing slaves. So, maybe not like the shadow dragons. Still, Rook was intrigued and watched the conversation intently. Cassandra shot a confused look at Varric at the mention of Kirkwall, and he just shrugged, and gave a look back. Like a, ‘What? You think I know everything that happens in Kirkwall?’ even though he probably very well did. 

“So here, in your face, I’m Sera!” She grinned proudly. “The friends of Red Jenny are sort of out there! I used them to help you!” she exclaimed, then added thoughtfully, “Plus arrows.” 

“So are you spies? A network that could help the Inquisition?” Rook could see the gears turning in Lavellan’s head, nearly there but so out of reach.

“So here’s how it is:” Sera gestured, bringing her hands up, like she was beginning a complicated lecture. “You “Important people” are up here, shoving your cods around–”

“What does fish have to do with–” Lavellan looked even more confused , if such a thing were possible, the poor guy. 

“‘Blah, Blah, Blah I’ll crush you! I’ll crush you!” Sera gestured and danced around a little, devolving into muttering and kissy-noises for a moment, before she shook it off and cleared her throat. “Then you’ve got cloaks, and spy-kings. Like this tit!” She pointed at the man they had discovered earlier, who had promptly taken an arrow to the face. Better than his dignity, anyway. “Or was he one of the little knives, all serious with his… little knife. All those secrets, and what gave him up? Some houseboy who doesn’t know shite, but knows a bad person when he sees one!” 

Lavellen listened, seeming to come to the realization behind Sera’s words. She was just… just some woman. Just some elf, with some friends, who knew people who had been pushed on, stepped on by the boots of the aristocracy, or the rich, or whatever fool out there had decided they were in power, because they were all the same. From Venatori cultists, to poncy Orlesian Chevaliers, to back-stabbing Fereldan Arls, Antivan traitors, and bullying Antaam. Just a no-one, but all the no-ones held up the some-ones, and that had power in its own right. Servants and weathermen and stableboys and slaves with lives and hopes and dreams and the right and desire for freedom— An army all around in the back-alleys and slums, just with their own unseen battles. 

Of course it was hard to take her wholly seriously as she kept talking. “So no, I’m not knify-shivdark, all hidden. But if you don’t listen down here, you risk your breeches. Like those guards, I stole their— Listen, do you need people, or not? I want to get everything back to normal, like you?”

Lavellan looked her up and down, considered it. And shrugged. “Alright, Sera. I can use you, and your friends.”

“Yes!” Sera jumped a little. “Get in good before you’re too big to like! That’ll keep your breeches where they should be! Plus extra breeches, because I have all these– Hey, you have merchants who buy that pish, yeah? Got to be worth something! Anyway, Haven. See you there, Herald. This will be grand!” 

She didn’t wait for another response before dashing off. It left everyone pretty dumbfounded. 

“Are you sure that was… a good decision?” Cassandra asked. “She seemed…”

“A few nugs short of a litter?” Varric offered.

“Yes, that.” Cassandra nodded sagely.

“I think she was fun!” Rook commented. “And it seems like a good idea to have those kinds of connections. She’ll get along with a lot of the regular people joining up.” 

“You’re right, Rook. That was just a lot for one night.. We should go find someplace to rest. There’s still Madame De Fer’s Chateau tomorrow and getting back to Haven.” Lavellan led the way out of the alley, back through the city and to less dodgy parts of town. Rook was inclined to agree about getting rest. They’d wanted to just stay asleep  since they fell through time. 

Chapter Text

Finding an affordable inn in Val Royeaux was a tough task to complete. Luckily, they had Leliana’s contacts in the city already and they were able to find a place to rest for the night. From the way Cassandra and the Inquisition scout who had joined them to lead the way spoke about it, it was meant to be a small place. If it was then Rook hesitated to imagine what a large space at an orlesian inn was meant to be like. They were taken to a fancy building, practically a manor, with many rooms. There was a large dining area, a restaurant that could provide meals to any guests that stayed. Their horses were outside already, and upon stepping inside to the foyer, Rook cringed. They now realized just how grime-covered they were from weeks of traveling through the frostback mountains and fighting demons. 

They were guided up to a set of rooms, which were all connected by a fancy common area. Rook had no idea what to think. They stood there a bit dumbly with Lavellan and Solas. 

“These are quite extravagant appointments,” Solas noted as he looked around at the walls decorated with gold and various paintings, many including portraits of masked nobles and orlesian landscapes. 

“The Orlesians spare no expense– And Leliana has friends in high places.” Cassandra sighed. “We should all get rest. And baths. Lavellan especially, for the chateau tomorrow evening.”

“They’ll have running water here. Dwarven ingenuity, Orlesian extravagance.” Varric stretched, pulling Bianca off his back. “And coin.” 

Rook nodded. It was late, exhaustion was catching up to him. Varric waved behind himself and went into one of the rooms connected to the common space. He shut the door behind himself. As they watched him go, Rook felt chills run over their shoulders and arms. Subtle but cold, like an ache, like grief running fingers over their skin. They brushed it off, looking at the others. 

“Well, sleeping in a real bed again will be a nice perk, even for just a night or two.” As if they had slept in a proper bed for a while, with their couch at the lighthouse being where they usually ended up. 

“We should get comfortable, but discuss our next moves before the night is done. Or even just… spend some time doing something other than being super serious.” Lavellan went to one of the blue doors, grabbing the handle after a moment of hesitation.

“I agree. Getting to know one another in a place other than a battlefield might be a good idea.” Cassandra nodded her head. Soon enough everyone had shuffled off to their own rooms. Rook went to one, closing the door behind themself.

The room was large, and cold. The windows had a view of the city outside, torches and lanterns glowing in the dark of night, people crossing along the paths to head home or to late-night events. There was an armour and a vanity, but they weren’t staying for long enough to be used. It was like being on a theater set or a dream– but an unsettling, uncanny dream. They hadn’t grown up poor– Their family had money, had enough status for a comfortable home and land, but they didn’t have magisterium level status. That wasn’t why it felt so uncomfortable. There was just something they couldn’t really put a finger on. 

Still, they moved on and set down their weapons, their blade and staff, their orb. They stripped out of their armor and went to their pack (Someone had brought them up, probably an inquisition soldier). They went through the motions of going through their meager belongings. All inquisition issued or bought from the small vendors in Haven and one in the Hinterlands. They felt little attachment to the things in their pack. 

Basic supplies, clothes, nothing like jewelry or things gifted to them by others. Most things they had on their person when they tumbled through time were back in Haven, and anything else too important to risk on a mission against the Venatori was in the lighthouse. They were glad that most things were safe and not damaged, but it made them feel so much more adrift and lost, their physical connections unbound. Proof of their existence so slight they could turn to dust on the wind. They hoped that made things easier, when they finally found a way home.

Rook finished organizing their things and changing into more casual, comfortable clothes. It felt good to be back in the soft, lavender tunic They favored when at the Lighthouse. Rook took time to move in it, and make sure the Lyrium dagger was tucked against their side and not too obvious. Then, they went out to the common area. 

They pushed open the door to their room and shut it silently behind them. When they looked up properly, Rook jumped, eyes widening in surprise. Sera was on one of the couches. Not really sitting, per se. She was upside-down with her arms folded behind her head and legs over the back of the couch, kicking her feet slightly. 

She grinned and giggled when she noticed Rook.

“Startled you proper, didn’t I?” She extended an arm to point. Rook recovered quickly.

“I thought you were going straight to Haven.” They slid into an armchair, but with their back against one of the arms and their legs over the other.

“One elf going through the frostbacks, alone? I don’t know you much but you can’t be that daft!” She.. Rook wasn’t sure what word one might use for the motion she made, waggling her finger from side to side.

“I mean… that isn’t exactly,” Rook started, then just shrugged. “So you’re going to travel with us?”

“Yep! And enjoy these fancy rooms while I’m at it! Beats where I’ve been staying. And I’m sure it’ll get all those fancy-tit orlesian’s ruffles in a twist to have someone like me here.” Sera still grinned wide and tucked her arm back into its original place. “So who’re you? What’s got you all ‘worthy’ to be at the side of the herald?” She was joking with her phrasing but the question was clear enough.

“I’m Rook,” they introduced. “And as for being here… Mostly, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

“Rook? S’weird name. Like the chess thingy?” She cocked her head. “Or like— Like Rookie! Ohh, that’d be funny!” 

Rook laughed. “I guess it would be.”

“You think the other’s will be out soon? Wanna talk to em’ too, not in dark alleys and shadows.” Sera kicked her feet again. How she wasn’t dizzy from sitting upside down, Rook wasn’t sure. She already seemed to be an enigma. 

“Should be out shortly.” Rook shrugged.

“What if they’re out loooongly?” Sera giggled, and bent her body so her legs flipped over her head, like some kind of somersault into a standing position. She shook herself out and laid on the couch on her stomach with her legs kicking up. She moved them back and forth, seeming to gauge how Rook reacted to her shoes getting close to the cushions. Rook didn;t react much. Something inside them recoiled about the idea of shoes on a couch, especially ones that had been on rooftops and in the muck and dung covered streets, but Sera was pushing, searching for a reaction to get to know them. She was searching for answers from them in a certain way. Just an introductory prodding, but they had turned to similar enough methods before with various people. They’d irritated Tarquin on purpose for a while at first, to see how far they could go, how safe they really were in the Dragons, but after a while it was more good fun than anything else. 

“Then I guess we’ll be here a bit. We’ll have to get some drinks, maybe some wicked grace.”

“Oh! S’that what your name’s from. A rook who rooks. Cheater-cheater-pumpkin-eater?” 

Rook laughed. She was so nonsensical, but jovial, teasing easily and for all her lack of social decorum it didn’t feel clumsy it just felt… free, and fun. It reminded them a bit of Bellara, though without grammar and much more immature– and aware of it. 

“You’d never know if I cheated, but I am pretty good at cards,” They admitted. They thought of Varric, of friendly late night games of cards, and taking all the coin Varric was worth. They thought of Lucanis and Davrin, leaving them both without clothes to hide any aces up their sleeves. Spite had picked up on some tells and their magic but kept quiet till the end for the amusement of it. 

“Mm, prove it!” Sera stood up. “Let’s have a round of wicked grace! Your inky-friends can play too, if they ever get done preening themselves up in those fancy rooms.”

Rook had to laugh again, shaking their head. “I’ll go see if I have a deck of cards in my things.” They did– They kept a deck in their pocket most of the time, some kind of good luck charm. The deck was old, some of the corners worn, some of the cards from different decks or stained with various kinds of alcohol. Not a fair deck– But it was theirs. They’d played with it across a table and drinks with Tarquin, they’d dealt out a hand or two with Harding and Varric on stake-outs, or after the gods were defeated with Rana and Neve. When they returned with the deck, the others were out of their rooms. 

They were just as baffled about Sera’s arrival as they’d been, really, but she still held the same relaxed attitude about it. She joked about Orlesian locksmiths being wine-drunk when they worked, and it was easy to sneak past the guards (especially since she didn’t have to laugh about a lack of breeches, before she made a clumsy pun about the inquisition and the breach).

Then she mentioned wicked grace. Cassandra and Solas seemed skeptical– Solas admitted that he didn’t know how to play. Varric hadn’t believed that, but Solas just shrugged. Rook went and sat down, shuffling their deck.

“So who’s playing?” Rook asked, cutting the cards, glancing down only briefly as the rough paper passed between their fingers. They knew the angel of death had a bent edge and the back of the card had a slight scorch mark. 

“I’d be good for a hand,” Varric said and sank into the plush velveteen of an armchair. 

“I’m too beat, but I’ll watch and drink,” Cyrith decided. He wore grey pajamas– comfortable, but a bit tacky. Particularly the pants. Not the fashion choice Rook would have gone for, they decided. Rook was glad for it– They hadn’t much coin to spare and they had learned from Varric that Cyrith was deceptively innocent. When it came to Wicked Grace, Cyrith went for the throat, and his tells were impossible. Rook was a confident player but it was just a game for the night.

“Boooring!” Sera did a thumbs down. “Deal me in, c’mon Rookie.”

“Not to start betting before even putting out a card, but how about if I win, you stop calling me Rookie?” They rolled their eyes as they spoke, dealing out five cards to Sera and five to Varric.

“I do not know how to play, but if you are willing to explain the rules,” Solas volunteered. Rook tried to pretend they weren’t overjoyed about it. Handing Solas his tail on a platter at wicked grace would be a satisfying conclusion. 

“I can explain as we go.” Cassandra put herself in the betting pool. Ten more cards went out. Rook watched everyone’s faces as they looked at their hands. Solas’s face was cool, blank, he didn’t yet know all the cards or what they might mean but Rook could tell he was puzzling it out. Cassandra’s nose twitched like she was about to make one of her disgusted faces– not a good hand, then. 

Varric had a cool, confident smile, but he kept sliding the cards between his fingers. Not a bad hand but he’d need leverage to win. Sera rocked back and forth in her spot, it was a wonder her cards weren’t visible for all to see but she was at least trying to guard them. Perhaps a bad hand, but she was, well, a wild card, so Rook wasn’t sure just yet. Cyrith had found some drinks stashed somewhere, a few bottles of wine that looked a bit expensive. Rook wasn’t going to complain. 

They grinned, and settled in. They knew the deck, they knew some tells already. They’d spent hours in Taverns in Tevinter cheating for all the coin any unlucky passersby were worth, something to get them along when money was tight, when they had given all their coin to those who needed it more or the rent in Minrathous had gone up once again. Wicked Grace was a game they’d played for fun, out of desperation, or even something to do with their hands. It was almost second nature as they gambled and tricked. 

At the last hand, there were only a few remaining players. Cyrith had gone to bed– not because he had lost badly, actually he was seemingly a match for Rook, but because he didn’t want to be too hungover for the chateau the next day. Sera had given up after losing badly, and Cassandra soon after. Rook was shuffling the deck, staring down Varric and Solas as they did. 

“I can’t figure out your damn tell, Rook!” Varric laughed and took a swig from his drink. “It’s uncanny!”

“It is intriguing.” Solas adjusted his sleeves. He’d drank very little, a sip here or there. Rook couldn’t tell if he liked the wine or not. “You are very good at concealing your motives. I dare to say you are a good liar.”

They didn’t like that. They faltered a bit in shuffling, a handful of cards straying from the deck and dropping onto the table. They looked down and busied themself with gathering them, reshuffling the deck, recounting the cards, and not looking at Solas’s expression. They took a beat, starting to deal the cards.

“Wicked Grace isn’t lying outright. I suck at that...” One card, two, three, four, five they counted in their head. Angel of death is halfway through the deck. “It’s strategy. It’s manipulation, machinations. Everyone has a hand in it, reading one another but trying not to be read… It’s the one place where it isn’t wrong. That's the point.” They weren’t a liar. They hated to lie, hated to trick others because often there was no reason to. But doing it in cards, in casual settings, it was a rush, it was fun . But it wasn’t real, it didn’t hurt anyone. They looked at their hand. A serpent wrapped around a dagger rested on the end, then to the right, a serpent of sadness,and  a serpent of decay, then a knight of compassion and a knight of sacrifice. Not a terrible hand. Rook looked up at Varric and Solas, glancing for their tells. They hadn’t looked at their hands yet. Instead, they studied Rook. They continued to speak. “And in Wicked Grace… The only one you have to rely on, is yourself.” Rook looked down. “Your own skill, your own luck.” They put coin down on the table. 

A long beat of silence. Then, Solas made a little noise. Rook couldn’t tell if it was a laugh.

“It still isn’t much different than the real world, is it?” Solas glanced at his cards. Rook watched his face. It was stony and hard to read, but when he had a bad hand, the scar on Solas’s face wrinkled. Sometimes, he adjusted his jawbone pendant. 

“It’s completely different.” Rook shook their head. “People care in the real world. Some people are only out for themselves, yeah, but not everyone. Some people… They’re selfless, willing to sacrifice, willing to put themselves on the line just for others to get their basic needs. Just so someone else can see another sunrise. Just for the small victories, whatever trouble comes their way, they make it their own. Not for selfish reasons, no, but to make the world… Better. And so rare is it for someone to change the world all by themself… In fact, I’d go as far to say that anyone trying to change the world in solitude, doesn’t have very good intentions for it.” Rook glanced up at Solas, gaze sharp, calculated and certain for a moment.

“Are we playing cards, or what?” Varric’s jovial attitude cut through the moment. Rook was almost relieved, and sank back in their chair. 

“Yeah. We are.” Rook agreed. “Let's go.”

Chapter Text

The card game ended in a draw. They held their own but Varric and Solas had been picking up on things and their luck was pretty even with the cards themselves. They’d retired the game for the night, returning to their rooms. Rook was slow to sleep. The bed was plush and comfortable, the temperature wasn’t bad, and it wasn’t loud outside. They just couldn’t sleep. 

Instead, their mind raced. Worries and fears flitted across their mind, some brief fragments of thoughts and others daydreams that tumbled through all the terrible ways that things could go. They could be stuck forever, out of their time, never to see Neve again, never to see their friends or continue helping with rebuilding Thedas. They could have permanently marred the timestream, and what were they to do with that? The dream-meetings with Solas had been encouraging, but it had been so long since they had one, and they still weren’t seeing a way out of their situation. It was like another prison, but it was just reality. 

They couldn’t even tell anyone, because who would believe them? And it wouldn’t fix anything. Not to mention, well, they’d appeared at one of the worst times. One of the most chaotic and tumultuous decades of recent history. The crises that had put world-ending catastrophes into motion. Rook might have saved Thedas but it had been ravaged first by the darkspawn and the Evanuris. It was a win they had taken at the time, but looking at the bigger picture… They were standing in a river and they knew the water rushed towards a cliff. 

Rook spent a few hours tossing and turning before finally falling asleep. Their rest wasn’t very good either, twisted by confusing dreams. Harding’s death repeated in their mind over and over. Bellara’s kidnapping. The sight of Minrathous overrun with darkspawn and venatori. Warped memories of battling blighted Crows. 

They woke up in agony. Pain flashed over the scars running over their body, left by the curling talons of the Despair demon. The scars were thin and silvery, the wounds hadn’t even been all that severe but the scars ached like a bone-deep chill. Rook let out a shuddering groan, clutching at their scarred shoulders and curling up on their bed. The blankets were tossed around them, their body cradled in plush fabric. The sun was up, it was already sometime around mid-morning. No one had gotten them up yet, perhaps too busy or taking a brief moment to breathe and relax. It was hard for Rook to question it or think very far past the feeling sinking into their chest. 

Some time passed– They weren’t sure how much, just that the intensity of the light from outside changed and it stung, a burning sensation countering painfully against the unbearable chill that was curling its way through their chest. At first they had curled up, groaned and clawed at their skin, made efforts to subdue the pain or at least grit to it. Now there was no end in sight and they had no energy left to keep squirming or to even call out for help. Instead they lay in a hopeless ball in the center of their bed and the thrashed around blankets, fingers loosely dug into their shoulders above the aching, icey scars. 

The door opened. They barely heard it, and barely had the strength to lift their head and look at who it was. 

“Rook, are you okay?” Cassandra crossed the room, the door shutting behind her. “It’s nearly noon, and you haven’t left your room or…” She trailed off as she took in the look of them. 

“It… hurts,” Rook strained to speak, to see Cassandra properly through vision blurred from tears. “I don’t know what to do… It just, just… hurts.” 

“What hurts? Are you injured?” She went closer, leaning over to get a better look at Rook. 

“I don’t know… I don’t know,” Rook shook their head. “It… the demon.. Did something. It hurts.”
“Demon…? The despair demon? But it’s dead!” Cassandra was aghast, shocked and confused, worried that Rook was about to turn into some kind of abomination, no doubt. “But if the scars still hurt…” She watched them, studying their curled up form. 

“It won’t go away..” Rook pushed their face into their pillows. “It just… It won’t stop. Like I keep losing… over and over again..”

Cassandra reached out for a moment, then hesitated. “Rook, I’m going to go get help. Perhaps Solas might know–”

“No! No, I don’t– I don’t want him near me.” Rook sat up. Pain burst through their shoulders. A thousand pounds coming down on their clavicles and shoulder blades. 

“Why..? What’s wrong?” Cassandra asked. 

“He’s–” Rook’s head was swimming. This was bad– They didn’t know what to say, they had nothing to back this up. “I just– I don’t want anyone else to know. To worry. I…”

“Rook..” Cassandra reached out again, then rested her hand on Rook’s shoulder. “I promise, you’ll be safe.”

Rook relented. They didn’t have much of a choice, and Solas was perhaps one of the only ones who could help with whatever magic had befallen them. They gave a small nod.

Cassandra left the room. For a long moment, Rook wondered if she would decide not to return. If they would waste away in their bed, lost to despair, never able to return to their own time. 

Then the door creaked open and Solas came through with Cassandra. 

“Cassandra came and got me from my room.. She said something was wrong, perhaps some kind of illness or lingering magic..?” Solas joined Cassandra at Rook’s bedside. He took a cursory glance at them. “You’re in pain.”

Rook nodded. “Since I woke up.. After.. Terrible dreams..” They took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. 

“It seems the despair demon we fought in the hinterlands left some kind of lingering effect upon you. It is most certainly dead, and the Fade in that area is healed. But…” Solas passed a hand over their skin. Rook shivered and pressed their eyes shut. Solas drew his hand back but magic rippled through the air. It was… Soothing, like a salve on a burn. “That means this effect is easy enough to counter. There is no telling if it will go away so easily, though. You will take time to heal.”

“How… do you know?” Rook asked, able to sit up without shaking like a leaf from just one pass of Solas’s magic. What if it kept coming back? What if they needed to rely on him before they could return home and he used this against them somehow? Their stomach sank and heart raced at the idea of it.

“This would not happen to anyone who was not a mage. Spirits are clever and powerful, even when they die the fade contains an echo of what once was. A mage who has been wounded by one could be connected to those echoes, due to their natural affinity towards the Fade.” Solas explained, pacing for a moment before returning to their side. “I can help with this. As.. part of my studies, I’ve learned how these echoes might be quieted. But the more powerful the spirit, the louder the echo of their existence. Sometimes… fragments are left behind.” 

Solas passed his hands over them again, but this time his fingers just hovered instead of making contact. His magic did touch them, they felt the Fade whisper and react. It was like no other magic they had felt before. When Solas cast his spell, the fade sang. He wasn’t drawing and tugging beyond the veil, no, the magic leapt to his fingers like the curtains had been parted. It soothed the pain, the ache wrung out from their scars like water from a rag. 

They tried to keep from trembling, or panicking as Solas using his magic on them was… Wrong, and terrifying. Could he use blood magic on them like this? Would he? They had tried not to give him much reason to be suspicious, but there were certainly moments where they had… not done a particularly good job on that one. Still, they relaxed as Solas’s magic put the pain to rest. 

“Thank you…” Rook said, when the pain had dulled to the point that Solas could pull away. The rest faded on its own.

“I am happy to help. I am sorry that such a thing has happened to you… You put yourself on the line for the rest of us quite often.” Solas observed, stepping back from them to give them room to breathe. 

“I’ve been told I’m reckless.” Rook shrugged, pulling the blankets over their shoulders so they were covered and comfy.

Cassandra gave a small laugh. “Your actions at the Temple of Sacred Ashes made that abundantly clear.” 

“I did what was necessary.” Rook crossed their legs. “Thank you, for helping me… Could we not mention this to the others, though? I don’t want them to worry.”

“If… you believe that to be wise.” Solas agreed. “If the pain returns, seek me out and I will aid you.” He turned to leave the room. Cassandra remained. Rook looked at her with confusion.

“Is there… something else?” Rook asked.

“Demons are.. Wicked things,” Cassandra began to speak. “They are often drawn to individuals who embody a lot of the vice or virtue that they represent. A rage demon will be drawn to the wrathful, a desire demon drawn to the needy to manipulate them… A despair demon to someone who is full of grief, or longing.”

“I… I know.” Rook looked down at the sheets and blankets pooling over their shoulder “I’ve… I,”

“You need not explain.” Cassandra reached up, pulling off a necklace she wore. It was a pendant with a symbol of Andraste hanging off a gold chain. Cassandra didn’t seem like the type to wear gold jewelry but there it was. “I want you to borrow this. It has been with me for many years.. It.. May help you. May give you solace or an anchor. Through nightmares or pain.”

“I– Cassandra, if this is important to you.. Can I even take this…?” Rook looked at her with wide eyes. It was a gesture of kindness, and it was… surprising. They hadn’t known each other that long in the grand scheme of things, thought they had a bit of rapport and had fought at each other's side… 

“You are borrowing it,” She reached out, taking their hand and pressing the pendant into their palm. “You can give it back when you feel the worst has passed.” 

“Thank you, Cassandra.. This is.. Thank you.” Rook moved and carefully put the pendant on. 

“Think nothing of it. I only wish to help.” Cassandra went to the door. “You should get some rest. You’ve had a long morning…”

“You can say that again..” rook sighed, thumbing over the symbol of Andraste. It was warm to the touch, something lyrium singing from deep within. 

***

Rook slept the rest of the day. They didn’t remember their dreams when they woke up to eat, or when they finally decided to get properly dressed and emerge from their room. When they did, they were met with a stranger. A woman sat on one of the couches. Her posture was impeccable, one leg folded over the other and her hands folded neatly in her lap, back straight, head high. Her skin was dark and contrasted greatly with the white robes she wore, which had many embellishments including a high collar and shoulder pads. Rook stood there for a moment, unsure of how to proceed, before they remembered Lavellan’s plans for the day.

“Are you.. Madame de Fer?” Rook asked. They had taken their staff and were leaning on it for support, still feeling a bit weak and weary from a day not doing much. 

“I am indeed.” She nodded at them. Her eyes looked Rook up and down, gaze sharp and appraising. They took in Rook’s ears, their own slumped posture (they adjusted it quickly but could not fully hide the exhaustion), and the staff they leaned on. “And you are?”

“I’m Rook. It’s… a pleasure to meet you. I apologize, I am not in the best of states at the moment.” They remembered how to speak formally, how to address a guest of a higher social stature. Even in their adopted family they were beneath most guests simply because of their ears and because they were not related to the Mercars by blood. 

“I can see that much, my dear.” Vivienne agreed. “Did the travel to Val Royeaux not agree with you much?” Casual, polite conversation, but she was testing them and they knew it. A loyalist mage who engaged with many politics in Orlais, each word was cunning and designed specifically to help her learn more about them. 

“Travel is… something I need to get used to. But my condition today was due to some lingering injuries after fighting demons at a rift in the Hinterlands.” Perhaps not the best idea to be so honest, to reveal such vulnerability, but she wasn’t Solas. She would file the information away thinking perhaps there was a way to use it against them if she found it necessary– But she would find no purpose to do so, and no real means to hold anything against them when their words were only clipped, half versions of their reality. When they had no power or social standing in this world, this time, because they shouldn’t even be existing in this moment. 

“I see. Many mages from the circle are not so used to roughing it.” She nodded simply. Rook smiled a little and went to sit down, leaning their staff carefully against a table nearby. 

“Maybe in the south.” Rook shrugged. This seemed to catch her off guard, her eyes widening a fraction. Good. Rook was not unarmed in this conversation, then. “I can rough it with the best of them. It is the cold I find more disagreeable. I’m used to being the source of any chill I find myself near, and it doesn’t feel quite the same as it does in the Frostbacks.”
“A fellow wielder of ice magic, I see. It is a delicate art but it can make other sources of chill feel more unnatural.” She raised a hand, forming a small sphere of ice between her fingers. A casual display of power that would have been surprising to anyone who had not already pegged her as a mage. The fade was sharp around her, and she drew upon her magic like it was a weapon even in the most casual of spells. The fade sang like the high notes of a glass armonica. 

“It is part of my specialty, yes.” Rook nodded. “I’m glad to be in the company of a mage who is familiar with it. Solas is more concerned with matters of physics and the Fade, and Lavellan draws upon a variety of elements that I’ve seen so far. A tool, rather than a focus of study that can be applied uniquely.” 

“More than a blunt instrument.” Vivienne’s polite smile widened into something more genuine. “I’m told you have a rather unique form of fighting, as well. Lord Lavellan mentioned it upon our meeting when he told me about the group that he’d gathered– A blade and a spell-powered orb of some kind– Not something many of us have seen at all.”

“It’s a Tevinter style. It can sometimes be more practical. Especially in the South, apparently, given the rogue templar’s we’ve been facing in the Hinterlands.”

“They’ve been quite troublesome, yes. They need to be brought to heel.” She made a grasping gesture with her hand. Her nails were long, sharp, perfectly manicured, curling talons. “I don’t imagine you’ve faced many templars, then, if you’re from Tevinter.”

“Not before coming here, no.” Rook agreed. They couldn’t hide the fear or the weariness that settled over them when thinking of the templars that had attacked them when they appeared. The silence, the chokehold on their magic. 

“It must have been quite the shock.” Vivienne studied them still with narrowed eyes. 

“Yeah… yeah, it was. But less of them will be using their abilities as time goes on– Lyrium withdrawal will be an advantage for us… Or even something to use to bring the Templars in again.” Rook grabbed their staff, running their fingers along the edges of it. 

“You think rather strategically.” Vivienne observed. “But do you think the Inquisition would be able to stomach such a thing?” 

“I.. I don’t know. I’m not the one in charge.” The idea of using someone’s addiction against them as a weapon, as a means of control to keep them in line… Did sound awful. It sounded like the kind of thing the Venatori would do, or the Evanuris. “We can’t think of the Templars as just an army, either. They’re made of people… People who used their power for wrongdoing, but that’s what makes them bad, not a reason to take away that humanity… Or.. Well, sorry, I suppose this is a serious conversation to be having when we just met.”

“I beg to differ. In difficult times such as these, serious topics are bound to come up, and in fact they must so that we can understand one another.” Vivienne waved a hand. “Regardless, I’m sure we shall be working together in the near future. We may as well get to know one another now.”

Rook smiled just slightly. They found that agreeable, and was glad their exhaustion had not led them to say something too out of turn. 

“I agree… Would you tell me about yourself, Madame de Fer?”

“That I would. I am Vivienne de Fer, first enchanter in Montsimmard, originally from Ostwick in the Free Marches…” She began to introduce herself, and speak, and Rook listened patiently and quietly, while allowing themself to rest.

***

The trip back to Haven was easier. They decided not to go through the Frostbacks this time. Instead, through their new companion’s connections, they had a ship take them most of the way. Rook remained in the hold the entire time, nauseous but also terrified for anything to happen. What if they fell in? Or got thrown overboard by a strong wave, or perhaps the ship would sink? They had no clue how to swim, and it was going against them. Several of the ship's crew had assured them, if they did go overboard or the ship sank, it wouldn’t matter if they could swim or not. The stormy sea waves would swallow them up and their death would hopefully be swift. Such was the sailor's way. 

Rook opted not to think about it, and instead to take all the coin they could from the sailors through various distracting and rowdy games of wicked grace. Within a couple of days, the sailors refused to play with Rook– Not that they could buy in. 

When they finally arrived on land, Rook was relieved. Perhaps comically so, from everyone’s reaction to their rush to get on dry, solid land.  Rook didn’t mind so much. Though it didn’t remain dry for long as it began to storm terribly. 

“Must we travel in such dreadful weather?” Vivienne sighed as she stepped up gingerly beside Rook. 

“I’m afraid so.” Lavellan joined her, leaning on his staff to brace against a strong gust of wind. 

“Then we best get moving, so we do not become exhausted too quickly by the downpour.” Vivienne raised her staff, forming a shield of ice above her head to protect her. 

“Hate the rain,” Sera grumbled, hugging herself as the group began to move. Cassandra was stoic in the cold, and Varric was cracking a joke to Sols.The usual, it seemed. 

***

“Hey, what’s that out there?” Sera asked, breaking the silence of their travels. She pointed out into the distance. The heavy rain obscured much and she was hard to hear over the crackles of thunder. Rook followed her outstretched arm with their eyes and squinted. Something was glowing, bright green reflecting through thousands of rain-drops, shadowy figures moving around, more visible with each flash of lightning. One tall, armored figure and several smaller ones cowered behind it before a tall, fleshy horror that had emerged from a rippling tear hanging impossibly in the air. 

“A rift!” Lavellan called over the wind. His anchor crackled with power and before anyone else could react he was pulling out his staff and rushing forward. The ground was slick with mud and wet but he moved nimbly across, used to rough terrain. It wasn’t hard for him to get far ahead of the rest of the group. Cassandra was sturdy and kept going but Varric was practically floundering in the puddles that sometimes came knee-high for him. Rook tried to help but heard a piercing scream from the group of figures around the distant rift. Their eyes went wide but before they themself could speak, Vivienne did.

“That was a child!” She cried with shock and terror. She was normally a very composed woman, if harsh and direct. She drew her own staff and the hilt of her spirit-blade. Just as she began rushing off, she froze. “Wait, it could be a demon! Playing off our minds–”

A fireball exploded near the rift. The armored figure was dropped down on one knee.

“Lavellan rushed ahead! We’re going to find out, one way or another!” Rook looked at her and then continued their path forward. Once they got to the rift they could almost see the true horror of the situation. It came in the brief blinks of vision they got between the lightning. Glowing magic against Templar plate armor– they wore a helmet, cold and unfeeling, obscuring their face. They were down on one knee curled over the body of something much smaller and more fragile. An arcane horror loomed over, long tattered robes trailing off its emaciated flesh in ribbons and wicked magic pouring out from its claws. Several other children were backed out of the way, too scared to even run away. Two of them were holding each other, others were curled up or barely standing. They were muddy, exhausted. In the brief moments of clarity offered by the storm, Rook counted seven children. Two elves and four humans, but they couldn’t tell what the one that the Templar was holding was. 

“Help us!” The templar called. “Help us, Please!” they cried over the rain. Rook looked around, seeing the Templar’s sword had been knocked far away.

“Get– AWAY FROM THEM!” Lavellan screamed. Rook wasn’t sure what direction he’d come from– It felt like all of them. His power rushed up like a whirlwind, calling upon the storm to amplify his own magic, he brought up his metal staff as a conductor. The lightning struck from the sky and Lavellan’s eyes were brilliant white, his hair standing on end and power exploding. One thick bolt at the horror and smaller ones beaming outwards and electrifying the corpses that had risen from the mud and were staggering dumbly around the rift. They dropped. The horror let out a screech but its charred body dropped when lavellan finally let go of the magic. He turned to Rook as he put out an arm to connect his anchor with the magic of the rift. 

“Get them clear, NOW! There will be more demons soon!” Lavellan barked the order, leaving no room to question and refusing to hedge his tone to something kinder. Rook got the message and didn’t care how nicely the order was given– That wasn’t the priority right now. Rook moved, scooping up the nearest child. “Follow me! You’ll be safe! We’re with the inquisition!” 

Some of their eyes widened, some confused, some still straight up terrified. Still, left with no other option, they followed as Rook tried to lead them down the hill towards the approaching group.

Sera rushed up first. 

“Andraste’s Pu–” She had the grace to cut herself off before saying anything too nasty.Thank the maker. “They’re friggin’ Kids!”

“Yeah! We need to get them out of here before–” Rook started to say. The rift behind them then burst with power. Lavellan snarled, shouting. 

“Move, damnit!” He called, while forcing a wave of ice to erupt from his surroundings and slow down as many demons as possible.

“Right, Moving!” Rook agreed. He looked at Sera. “Shoot as many demon bastards as you can!”  

“Yessir, Rookie sir!” She mock-saluted and rushed up the hill with an arrow already drawn. Rook continued their rush forward. The child in their arms was looking over their shoulder, but they felt them shuddering, crying. 

Cassandra rushed past with the clank of armor, blade drawn. The templar had hauled themself to their feet and was keeping pace with Rook on their way to safety. Not out of selfishness– they carried two children now, but their occasional stumble revealed that they were incredibly injured, or exhausted, or both. Probably both. Inquisition scouts rushed to meet them and form a line behind them, firing arrows and forming a shield wall in case there were more demons than expected. The sounds of fighting behind Rook were encouraging, battle cries from Sera mixing with the ring of Cassandra’s sword, and the crackles, rumbles, and shrieks of magic from Lavellan. 

“Come here, come with us! You’ll be alright my dears, we are here to help!” Vivienne had regained some of her composure, or more like she was putting up a brave face for the children. She knelt down to one of them (in the mud, with white clothes– A big sacrifice for her, Rook suspected) and waved the children closer encouragingly. 

“We need– We need shelter!” Rook told Vivienne, finally coming to a stop beside her. They were far enough from the danger now to at least breath. Their lungs burned and their arms were beginning to ache from the weight of the kid they held. 

“There’s some old cabins up the road! We should get there, as soon as we can!” Solas appeared from… Rook wasn’t sure. They hadn’t been able to keep track of all their companions as the storm made it nearly impossible to see and everything was happening so fast. Varric had rushed ahead finally to join the fight and they hadn’t even realized it. 

“Good idea!” Vivienne agreed. “Come now! Let’s get out of this dreadful weather.” she smiled warmly, picking up her staff and hitting the bottom to a nearby stone a few times. The top began to glow with brilliant white light. “Follow the light if it gets too dark!” She began to lead the way. There were no more demons in their path but Rook kept their eyes up and scanned for threats constantly. 

The sounds of battle were still behind them, but massive explosions and cries were farther between. They faded almost completely as the cabins finally came into view. They were abandoned.

Two cabins sat dilapidated near a rotting, overgrown field surrounding an old wind-mill. The walls were damaged, doors just barely hanging on and half their roofs caved in– But it was better than nothing. Rook moved a pace faster, eager to set the child in their arms down. The scared and weary group made it inside. 

Vivienne let out a huff, and lit a fire in the fireplace. She gestured to get everyone huddled around one area under the remains of the roof. The templar collapsed with several clangs and metallic screeches.

“S’rry..” They groaned, reaching up and tugging off their helmet. The full plate they wore was old, rusted in some places but as best maintained as it could be. Some metal pieces had clearly been replaced and the gaps where chainmail showed through made it clear that the chainmail had been fully replaced but the majority of the armor had not. “Thank you, for coming to our aid… we were lost in the storm, and then that– that thing opened up and started pouring out demons– I– We barely–”

“Slow down,” Rook went over. “One thing at a time.” Rook held up a hand gently. 

This was a templar. Unarmed, but if he had lyrium, hidden daggers, anything, they were still a threat… But Rook didn’t want to think like that. To think in the “what ifs” and worst case scenarios.  

“Right, ‘M sorry.” The templar shook out his hair. Beneath the helmet, he had long, messy dark brown hair. Soaking wet and raggedy, unkempt for… probably weeks. He had a pack on but it looked crumpled, low on supplies. The children looked mostly well fed and were only mildly bruised. Except the one the templar had been holding– A young girl in… pale blue robes, curled up and clutching at herself. Red was spreading across her abdomen and she couldn’t even speak from the pain. “Please, can we get this little one help, first?”

“I can mend her wounds.” Vivienne went over. The templar, finally gaining some bearings, gasped and half shuffled back.

“You’re mages!” They gasped. Rook really got a look at their face then. Thick eyebrows, tinged with greying hairs, a rough, wrinkled cheeks, eyes lined with crows feet– An older templar.

“Yes, Knight-Captain Obvious.”  Rook rolled their eyes. “We’re with the Inquisition. We’re going to help you, so try not to kill us until after then.”

“I’m not– I wouldn’t–” He stammered. Then he shook his head. “I was just… surprised.”

“Hush.” Vivienne was kneeling again, over the poor injured girl. “Hello, my dear.. I’m Vivienne.”

She whimpered, barely conscious.

“I know, I know it hurts.” Vivienne spoke in such a soft, gentle voice. “I’m going to help you. I’m a mage, like you, dear.”

The robes– Rook finally made the connection fully in their mind. These were apprentices . But why were they out here? Barely fed, exhausted, with a templar . They turned to the stranger, eyes narrowing, something brewing in their chest.

Solas watched from nearby, standing by the fire. He watched a group of the more resilient children, who had gathered near each other and were watching or trying to warm up. Rook glanced over, seeing that one brave human boy was slowly shuffling closer to Solas, who watched with… It was hard to place, but perhaps apprehension.

“It hurts!” The girl finally managed something louder than a whisper, and she writhed. “The– the demon! It hurt– I–” She sobbed.

“I know..” Vivienne shushed gently. She reached down, explaining as she went. “I’m going to put you on your back now– It will hurt more but I need to see your wound.”

The girl was inconsolable, squirming and crying, kicking sometimes in any effort to stop feeling the pain. Vivienne moved her and she screamed, and sobbed. Her back twisted and she cried out in open agony, high pitched howl making everyone in the small cabin cringe. Solas only barely flinched, but Rook did catch it. 

“It hurts! I’m gonna die, it hurts!” she broke down into sobbing and muttering. “I– What if I become an abomination! It– it’s going to make me into one of– Make it stop!” Sparks and embers crackled off her fingers weakly.

The other children gasped and cringed back. One even rushed behind Solas, whose eyes widened. 

“It’s going to be okay.” Vivienne's hands glowed with magic. Rook looked back at her properly, seeing the slight tremor in her fingers. The templar watched closely. Not with fascination but a mix of concern for the girl and Vivienne’s actions. They didn’t protest or attack, in fact barely moved. They certainly didn’t trust this merry band of mages, but maybe didn’t want to cause more trouble for the kids, or was too weak to fight back anyways. No lyrium, it seemed. The templar was shaking and some of the damp on their face was likely the sheen of sweat, not rainwater. “You’re being very strong–” she looked up at the templar. “What is her name?”

“I–” The templar looked at the other kids for a moment, like doing a mental headcount. “Muriel. I think the other children call her Muri.”

“Muri,” Vivienne spoke softly. Her magic wove through the air, gentler and less sharp than the spirit magic she called on for her blade. It was a hand held in the dark, it was a warm candle in a long dark hallway, it was bad wine and burnt coffee and even worse stories. “You’ll be okay. You aren’t going to die. You are strong and you will stay with us.”

The girl's cries softened to whimpers again. She stilled but was breathing raggedly and pressed her eyes closed. 

“You will not become an abomination.” Solas stood. “You have not been possessed, I assure you child.” Solas spoke slowly, gently. He held his staff and slowly went over. He crouched by Vivienne, holding out a small blue vial of Lyrium potion as she leaned back and wiped sweat from her brow. She nodded her thanks, surprised by the gesture. “I have studied demons, spirits, and the Fade for a great many years and I promise you, this will not happen.”

She sniffled. “But Marcel did…” She hiccuped. “The demons hurt him and they frightened him and they promised it would stop and when it did he– He–”

“We are not demons.” Vivienne spoke firmly. She held her hands over the girl, hovering but not touching. Her injuries were healed but– Her clothing was certainly torn up. She gave Solas a look. He blinked a little and she gestured with her chin. He then nodded his understanding and removed the hood he had wrapped over his head and shoulders. Vivienne moved her hands and Solas draped it over Muriel. “As I said. My name is Vivienne. I am the first enchanter of Montsimmard– That’s in Orlais, my dear. This.. mage, is Solas. And that mage over there is Rook. There are also scouts here– Of the Inquisition.”

Muriel sniffled. She pushed herself up to a sitting position. Vivienne tied the fabric from Solas’s hood up around her back so it would remain in place. There would probably be a scar from the demon. Probably for the rest of her life. 

“You’re safe now.” Rook reassured her. They looked up at the other children. “You’re all safe now. We will protect you.”

“Are you rebels?” Another girl, an elf with small pointed ears and wide eyes asked. She looked to be one of the older children but still couldn’t be older than thirteen. 

“No. I am a loyalist mage helping the Inquisition.” Vivienne explained. Solas practically turned his nose up, but said nothing and returned to sitting by the fire. The children looked at him and scattered to rejoin the rest of their group. He watched intently.
“I am grateful you came when you did.” The templar spoke up. They went to Muriel, looking at her. “I’m so sorry, Muriel. I tried to protect you…” 

Muriel sniffled. “Did you do your best, Ser Claude?” her voice wavered, uncertain. Claude blinked, then nodded slowly. Muriel nodded back. “Then.. I forgive you.” Claude let out a brief noise, close to a laugh but he couldn’t even muster a smile. Vivienne did smile. Solas tilted his head– He probably thought it was so naive. But wasn’t trying their best all someone could ask for, sometimes? Wasn’t it the small victories? Wasn’t it about getting out alive to fight another day? But because it was a child, because of the words used, he would scoff and turn up his nose?
Rook resisted the urge to call him a bastard to his face. They would do it much later, anyway. Or had done it? Whatever.

“What about you, Rook?” someone else asked.

“I– I am from Tevinter,” Rook was forced to admit. Claude’s gaze snapped up and they went to stand properly and take a step forward. Rook snuffled back. “I didn’t like it much there. So  I came here to help… work things out.” They looked at Claude. Let embers spark around their heads– A warning show. But Vivienne glared at them both hard for a moment too brief to be caught by the children. 

“But don’t mages rule there? Aren’t you happy like that?” a boy piped up. Another whacked him on the head.

“Lyle you dummy, elves are all slaves there and their masters eat them when they have magic for more power !” 

Rook couldn’t help but laugh. “I– No, no they absolutely do not! Or.. Well, I don’t know about cannibalism.. But, I wasn’t a slave. Not all elves in Tevinter are slaves… But I don’t think there should be any slavery at all.” 

“This is beside the point.” Vivienne stated. She stood up. “We are not rebels. We are helping the Inquisition. The Herald of Andraste and others of our group are working to defeat the demons and seal the rift.” 

“We’ll.. Stay here, and protect all of you.” Rook went to stand at her side. 

“Can we have food?” Lyle, from before, asked. 

“We have some spare rations, don’t we?” Solas asked. “They are vulnerable and exhausted. We should get them food, rest at the least.”

“Agreed.” Vivienne nodded. The group began to organize with the remaining scouts, getting the children all a healthy share of rations, and clean water. Muriel especially with her injuries. Vivienne healed some other minor burns, scrapes, and cuts. Soon enough, Claude the Templar, Rook, and a sleeping child (Aryla, Rook learned) were by the fireplace. 

“What were you doing out here?” Rook asked. Claude eyed them wearily. One whisper of Tevinter and the man was practically shaking out of his armor. 

“I was protecting the children.” Claude answered bluntly. 

“Why? Why weren’t they with the Rebels, or—“ Rook began. They looked at the Templar intensely. After all they’d seen, they had little reason to believe that they’d met one of the few rational Templars in the order. And the bar for that was practically on the ground, and none were innocent with the blood splattered across the system.

“The rebels abandoned them. Between the demons, their own infighting, and worse… they decided they did not have the time to care for the helpless children they so irresponsibly freed.” Claude snarled, but spoke softly so the children wouldn’t hear.

Vivienne was over speaking with some of them, telling some old bed-time story. She said it was from the Anderfels, about a strange mage who came to a town playing a magic flute, followed by a horde of rats. Not all the children were focusing (they’d learned the four human children, two boys and two girls- were Lyle, Allen, Muriel, and Emme. The elves, a boy and a girl, were Aryla, and Arvin. Twins.) Obviously Aryla was sleeping. But her brother, Arvin, was studying Solas. Solas watched passively, holding his staff.

“What’s that on your necklace?” Arvin asked.

“It is the jaw of a wolf.” Solas answered.

“Why’s it black? Why’re you wearing it?” Arvin asked. 

“Wolves were once sacred to my people,” Solas answered the second question but not the first.

“My people? But I’m an elf too! Wait, are you dalish?!” 

To his credit, Solas did not recoil at the assumption. He simply shook his head. “I am from a village to the north. I left at a young age.”

“an apostate? Do you do…” Arvin leaned in, whispering, “Blood magic?”

“No.” and he left it at that. Perhaps for the best, with Claude in the room. And Claude had peaked over when hearing that.

Rook returned their focus to their own conversation. “Why would the rebels do that?”

“They’ve gone mad?” Claude suggested. “I don’t know. They left the children with the Tranquil. Fat lot of good that did them. The children need safety and nurturing, not an emotionless thing that can't defend itself.” 

Rook cringed but wasn’t sure how to even respond to that. They… Had not met any tranquil. Not in Tevinter, really. The concept of it made their throat tighten, though.

“I found them. When the world went to shit I was hunting an old Maleficar in the wilds… I didn’t end up finding her.” Claude sighed. “When I returned, the world was on fire. Demons killed most of the tranquil. I took the children and escaped. I’ve been trying to protect them ever since.”

“You left the tranquil behind?” Rook gasped. Claude gave them a sideways look.

“They’re already dead, aren’t they?” Claude reasoned. Rook regularly felt the need to strangle Solas, because he hadn’t owned up to his mistakes yet and was a liar and they were beginning to lose their mind about it. But now everything this stranger said was pissing them off.

“They’re still people.” Rook clenched their fist. “Even with what was taken from them.”

“What do you even know about it? They don’t get tranquil in the north.” Claude countered. “I was there for a lot of those apprentices. Since they were kids. I cared for them, protected them. Some of them during the Blight in Kinloch Hold! I watched them grow up. I wanted more for them, just as much as I do these children. But mages are dangerous. To themselves and others. That’s why they’re kept away— so we don’t have another Tevinter on our hands.”

Rook opened their mouth to speak, then stopped and shook their head. The two had been speaking softly but the more heated things got the harder it was to speak softly. 

“I admire that you want to protect mages.” Rook said after a long beat of silence. “But sometimes the ideal and the way you go about it is not the same. Not the best for the people you're caring for. At some point the mages grow up and they’re not children that need to be protected, perhaps sheltered, they’re adults who are being treated as children and often abused.. Just because they’re powerful in one way. But the circles made them helpless in others.”

Claude conceded and sighed. “I know that. I don’t blame.. some of the mages for rebelling. Many of my fellow Templars… they aren’t good men. And many of the circles practices pushed mages further down the path to being maleficar than it would have otherwise. And tranquility…” the Templar gave a deep sigh. “I believed many of the mages I saw put to Tranquility were dangerous. But a lot of them were barely adults. A few… not even such. It’s a terrible thing to do, once I believed it necessary. But I thought of those bright, happy children every time I looked one in their cold empty eyes.” Claude moved closer to the fire, trying to warm their hands when a particular cold breeze came through. “We killed them with Tranquility.. They became empty bodies that we had to care for. Killing them would have been more of a mercy, instead we disrespected their deaths by stripping them of being people. It was a coward's way out.”

“But they found a cure, didn’t they? To Tranquility. It was another reason the mage’s rebelled.” 

“And how well did that work out?” Claude huffed. “The first cured tranquil killed himself. And we have no proof he would have been safe again if he hadn’t.” Claude spoke evenly– They believed they were being reasonable. It was more infuriating than anything. Rook knew changing Claude’s mind would be a fool’s errand, and yet–

“So you’d rather kill children who might be dangerous?” Rook hissed bitterly after a long silence between them. 

Claude cringed, and shook his head. “No. I’d rather we rehabilitate those we can– Many mages were made Tranquil with barely any evidence. Many mages were made tranquil with barely any evidence. Many mages were made Tranquil for minor infractions or because they tried to escape… Templars decided they must be made tranquil for it– It was too far in most cases… In the few cases of actual danger, they should have been stopped completely. Just as any dangerous man would be. It was wrong for templars to enforce it. And wrong for the mages to go along with it.” 

Rook froze a little at the last line. So many retorts had been building in their mind at Claude’s words, driven by emotion and confusion and a whole mix of so many things. 

“What… Do you mean..?”

“You really know so little of the south?” Claude titled his head. “When a mage is made tranquil, it must be signed off on by the Knight-Commander of the circle, And the first enchanter. Not that you would understand how a circle works– How do the ‘vints even learn magic?”

“I was trained in a Tevinter circle. We have them. They’re a lot more like schools, academies. We even have harrowings. We just don’t give our templar’s lyrium and we don’t make mages prisoners . Flawed as Tevinter is… mages being free prevents a lot of abominations and gives a lot of us an education.” Sometimes. Mostly. Well, the blood magic and slavery (especially mages who were enslaved) did not help, but then their point about prisoner mages being bad still stood. 

“But you still have blood mages.” Claude frowned. Rook simply shrugged. They were still mulling over Claude’s words. A knight commander and a first enchanter had to approve it… They glanced at Vivienne, who was setting up a sleeping area for the children. Surprising, still, how gentle she was. But she had signed off on tranquility before? She had to have it. Crippling a fellow mage, ruining their life, practically ending it but not truly– That was the horror Claude failed to grasp. They were still alive, still experiencing, and knew everything had been ripped away from them. Still people.

“So does the south.” Rook finally said. “And you have murderers, traitors, thieves, just like the north. Evil is not exclusive to any part of the world or type of person. Being dangerous and being amoral are not always the same.” Rook leaned over. The fire was dying, embers cooling and light draining from the room. “Many would say the templars are evil. Many would say any mage is evil and sinister no matter what, because they are dangerous. But you still saved these children.”

“I did.” Claude looked into the fire. His face was hard to read and the flames cast an odd glow against his skin, hard to make out all of his features with the light and shadows moving over his wrinkled and slightly scarred skin. “Maybe I am wrong. Maybe it is more complicated than I believe– But I cannot waver when lives other than mine are on the line. The tranquil were few, and some were injured. They cannot fight, and must be told when to run because they only react to immediate danger and even then it is merely… An understanding of danger and pain, not the true fear of it.”

Rook swallowed a bitter taste that filled their mouth. More things to say, more arguments about the tranquil, how much they understood– They weren’t children and they weren’t useless. But anger took a lot of energy, and they didn’t need another heated discussion. 

“Where were you planning to take the children?” they asked instead of fighting more.

“The Inquisition. I planned to take them to Haven,” Claude answered. “The herald of Andraste is a mage– an Elven one to boot. I figured.. The Inquisition could care for them. Would, care for them. I’m glad you all came when you did… The Inquisition may truly be Maker-sent.”

“You believe that Lavellan is truly the herald?” Rook asked, perplexed.

“I do. The Hero of Ferelden was an elf, after all.. From Denerim, too. That was Andraste’s home… I think, perhaps the Maker means to show the world that we should all work with one another. Regardless of race.” Claude gave a shrug. 

Rook was surprised… But, they would take peace where they could get it. They had reached an impasse. They turned to watch the others. Solas particularly. He was watching the children, and even helping them get to bed. He was reserved, helping because he had to. He didn’t seem to know what to do with the children– They were beginning to get some of their energy back, but were clearly still traumatized. 

Lyle approached him carefully, looking nervous. “Mr. Solas?” he asked. “Will you pray with us? Ser Claude is busy…” Lyle asked sheepishly. “And Enchanter Vivienne, too.”

“I am afraid I do not know many prayers for your Maker or Andraste.”  He informed the child in a polite but direct tone.

“Oh! Are you– Aryla says her family from before believed in Elven gods. She came from Redcliffe! Do you pray to them too?” Lyle’s eyes were wide and curious. Then he leaned down, whispering conspiratorially, “You know they’re not real, right?”

Rook gave an amused snort– Earning an incredulous look from Claude.

“Why should they not be real, child?” Solas asked.”The same as your Maker. As you grow, you may learn matters of the divine are far more complex than they seem.”

Lyle just looked confused. Solas shook his head, and laughed very softly. “I am sure Enchanter Vivienne or Ser Claude would pray with you, if you are patient.”

“Okay!” Lyle went to join the other children. Solas stood slowly and went to join Rook and Claude by the fire. Arylen still slept beside them. Solas nodded at them and went to warm his hands. Rook studied him closely. Thoughts rolled through their heads again. Had solas justified tranquility to himself? He’d been unable to kill the Titans. Tranquility was the solution but he didn’t know it would create the Blight. He regretted it but that hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t changed anything. Perhaps he once thought that the titans should have won– That it was their right. They’d stolen the titan’s blood, they had marred the earth. Violated, twisted… 

“Do you think the Herald will return soon?” Claude looked toward the door. “The rift… There were demons everywhere. Even with the power he displayed..”

“They’re probably being held back by the storm.” Rook stood up. They went to the door, pushing it open to look outside. It was still raining but not as hard. There wasn’t a bright glow in the distance from a rift– A good sign. And just as they went to close the door, Lavellan’s voice called out over the storm.

“Hey! Rook!” Lavellan rushed up. He was covered in mud, soaked through from the rain, and splattered with demonic ichor– But was smiling, and didn’t look injured. “Did everyone make it safe?” 

“Yes, everyone made it. One of the children was badly injured but Vivienne was able to help.” Rook held the door open. The rest of the group came through, in various states of dishevelment. The children who were still awake gasped. 

“The Herald of Andraste!” Emme, a human girl with muddy blue robes jumped up out of bed. 

“Oh, they’re still awake.” Lavellan blinked.

“Come by the fire,” Rook suggested. “You’re all a mess.”

“We just fought.. At least a dozen demons.” Lavellan sighed. “But the rift is sealed, and it's safe again. The storm will take time to pass– We should remain here until then. We will be delayed getting back to haven but… I think it will be fine and worth it. We also can’t travel as hard with the children..”
“You know– You know I was looking for the inquisition?” Ser Claude asked.

“I– I didn’t. But I assumed, well.. There isn’t much out here. It would be safest at least to come to Haven with us after what happened.” Lavellan looked at Claude.

“Thank you, herald.” Claude breathed with relief. “We’re grateful for your help, truly. I wanted to bring the children to safety. They only trust me so much and I can’t care for them all, either.”

“You’re a templar.” Lavellan said. 

“Yes. I’ve already had… some heated conversation with Rook.” Claude sighed. “I do not believe that the mages should be harmed for what they are, but freedom is dangerous and comes at a cost. The children were freed from the circle by the rebellion, but had nowhere to go and wouldn’t know what to do. The mages abandoned them. I survived the attacks against the templars but I did not go with my brothers to cause wanton chaos or disavow the chantry. I am not sure what is happening now but I knew I had to protect them no matter what.”

“Thank you, for doing that.” Lavellan shed his mud-stained cloak. “You will be welcome with the inquisition. There are many disagreements in these times about.. What to do or what to believe.. But we have a greater threat, right now. I expect much of the debates will be set aside for now..”
“I will help how I can. Even if I do not agree, there are things worth fighting for.” Claude stood. “I will return soon. We will need more firewood from somewhere and I must remove my armor and tend to it.”

“We will tend to the children, Ser Claude.” Vivienne made her way over. 

Rook found a quiet place to sit. Their eyes felt heavy, shoulders drooping. Such a long day, thinking of home, thinking of the conflicts of the world. Even in their own time, things had not truly settled with the mages in the south. There were scars left behind, all across Thedas. Rivain, Fereldan, Orlais… The circles had left their marks. Rook began to drift off slowly. So many things left their marks. They’d left their own– But not yet. And each time they attempted to avoid leaving a mark on this time, they failed.

Chapter Text

Traveling with a larger group slowed them down a lot more than anticipated. The kids were exhausted, some of them struggling with their magic reacting to the veil being so thin. Having three full mages did help a lot with this– Each of them had a different approach to managing the Fade and their magic. Claude kept an eye on even the shortest conversations that the children had with Rook and Solas– Suspicious of them, but relaxing on any chantry rhetoric and avoiding as many touchy subjects as they could. Lavellan led the way a lot, the children naturally trusting him because of being a mage, who had grown up away from the Circle that had abandoned them, and being the Herald of Andraste. Some of them gravitated towards Vivienne for familiarity, though.

Finally, they’d arrived back in Haven. The group approaching brought a lot of attention. Lavellan cringed back at first but took a breath, heading forward to meet the first scout. Charter, who rushed up with a few other scouts in tow. And Cullen approached as well, a bit out of breath when he reached the group. He took in the members, eyes a little wide. He looked at the new members– Vivienne and Sera stood on opposite sides of the group (they had quickly established a dislike for one another), the children huddled between them and Ser Claude behind them. Claude’s eyes flashed with some kind of recognition.

“It’s good that you’ve returned,” Cullen said. “It seems… A lot has happened on your travels.”

“It has been eventful.” Lavellen stepped forward. “This is Ser Claude, and the children were apprentices in a circle– But they were… Abandoned. It’s complicated. We saved them from demons near a rift that had opened up… We should get them someplace warm, and get them food.”

“Right away. I’ll send word ahead, Ser.” Charter informed, then rushed off to complete their task. 

“Come on, let’s not stand in the cold.” Lavellan started to walk again. Rook’s feet ached in protest of moving but they continued, glancing down towards the kids occasionally.

“Where should they stay? There might be room in the chantry, or..” Cullen looked uncertain.

“Let me remove my things from the cabin I’ve been staying in. They can have that until we figure something else out.” Lavellan walked ahead. “After that I’ll go to the chantry and we can speak about what happened in Val Royeaux.”

“Of course, Herald.. Will Ser Claude… Actually, I know you,” Cullen realized aloud. 

“Yes.. Cullen, isn’t it..? You survived Kinloch Hold.. The worst of it, really.” Claude frowned sympathetically. “You were at Kirkwall. You look… At least, a lot better than when I last saw you.” 

Cullen cringed at the mention of both Kinloch hold and Kirkwall. Rook couldn’t help but notice, and wondered if Cullen felt the same pang of horror that they felt when they thought about the battlefields they’d seen, or D’meta’s Crossing, or Weisshaupt… Or if it was deeper, like remembering the Fade Prison. The rest of the conversation faded off as they started to wander towards their own cabin. 

They heard Cassandra piping into it as they went. They wanted (needed) to lie down for a while. Rook thumbed the pendant Cassandra had given them as they walked, feeling warm, enchanted metal that pushed away the cold settling into them. Some might have been from the weather but some of it was deeper, like an aura emanating off their chest. The warmth from the pendant pushed some of it back. They fell into bed once within the confines of their cabin, not even caring about the dirt of the road. They’d been laying down for barely a minute, letting the pain seep out of their body when they drifted off to sleep. 

***

A song made of gongs and bells and heavy beats rang through their head. It was all around them, and every movement they took broke the tempo. It was out of time, discordant and warping the air around them, which was full of mist and smoke. They knew they had to keep moving, every step made the bells sing faster, their heart hammering in their chest, they were in danger and it was too late to slow down. It was too late, too late to stop, too late to think and take it back. Too late, too late, too late, the thought echoed after every hammering, thunderous beat in the cacophony they were surrounded by. 

They were running soon enough. Each footstep was a cry out into unfeeling darkness. Everything else was screaming, so Rook was drowned out. But they had to keep running, had to keep going or else everything would stop. And the Silence was worse. All their thoughts could race, no interference. A long stretch of emptiness, the silence was death. 

Rook didn’t like the cacophony, the twisting power of gongs and clocks. They ran and they yearned for the gentle cadence of Neve’s voice. Her hands, her presence like cool morning air. Her fingertips, so refreshing on their skin. It would soothe them, set their heart aflutter with warmth and radiance, not fear. 

Now, they couldn’t slow down. They couldn’t even look back at what might be, surely was, chasing them. What was going to get them, they didn’t know or question, only that it was inevitable. They just ran. Just needed to run, run, run, run, run—

Silence. The tempo ceased and Rook crashed to their knees. They heaved for breath and looked around with wide eyes. They expected to die or to wake any moment now–

“Catch your breath. You are safe, for now.” Solas’s form materialized before them.

“I’m… Getting really tired of these dreams.” Rook groaned. “It’s like my mind is trying to work it out, to fix the problem, solve the equation on its own but it… ugh.” They held their head for a moment, leaning back on their knees and the balls of their feet. 

Solas regarded them with a simple glance. “And the stress you’re under leads to these nightmares… What do you have so far?” 

“Nothing!” Rook snapped. “The only way I think I could get back right now, is blood magic!” And I’m not going to do that! So… I’m stuck.” Rook stood, kicking the ground a little, but it felt like nothing. Just a dream, the only satisfaction was the psychology associated with the movement. “I have the lyrium dagger, it could cut through the enchantment in the fade, but I’d get trapped and probably wouldn’t end up in the right time, if I make it through at all.”

“Slow down, Rook.” Solas leaned on his staff. He was less ethereal as in other visions, like he was less solid and present. Perhaps he was stretching himself thin, a hand cast across the ocean of eternity that was the Fade. Rook wasn’t sure. Solas wore simpler garments and a more natural staff, grown from twisting, old wood. The robes he wore were long and silky, green robes with minimal gold embellishments. They swayed back and forth in a slow, deliberate beat, like the memory of wind that was too well timed. “Think about where the problem began and work from there, not in the moment. This might aid you. It’s all different now, but not then, yes?”

Rook huffed. Frustration built in their chest like hot coals in a fire, but then died. “I’ve never been one for looking back… But I guess right now, it counts as looking forward.”

Solas was silent. He watched them, studied them really, as though he were reading.

“This is just… powerful magic. The venatori was killed… so many slaves. I don’t even know if they've stopped in my time. I don’t even know if– If I was sent back alone . So they would succeed anyway! Then everything– Everything , would be for nothing. Stopping your ritual, killing the gods, binding the veil shut, it would just… just be erased! The world would end. And it would be my fault. For rushing in, again , and not thinking again . For not planning ahead. I– I’ll have ended the world. I– Am ending the world, maybe, just by being here!” They descended into rambling, holding their head. Solas was quiet, perhaps not having a word to offer, perhaps remembering his own follies. “I can’t- I just–” 

The world around them shook. It wavered. Solas just watched, sadly, as unreality slipped away.

***

Rook awoke in tears. They curled onto their side. THe door hadn’t been proper;y closed and their room was full with a thick chill. They shivered a little but took deep breaths. They were wrapped up in the cold. A familiar sense, almost comforting. Rook let themself sink into it, closing their eyes but refusing to sleep again. 

Whenever they drew close, they reached up and ran their hands over their face. Cold magic ran from their fingertips and chilled mist wafted into the air. Rook didn’t track the time that they spent laying there. It was late morning by the time they rolled out of bed, staggered into clothes, and went outside. They wore many layers, tired of the cold after their long morning. 

Rook made their way blearily to the tavern. It wasn’t very full, only a handful of people were there still having breakfast, and one musician playing soft tunes on their lute. They managed to get a cup of warm tea (bitter– they’d forgotten how expensive sugar was in the south). They listened to the musician play, occasionally humming along if the tune was familiar. Then someone slid into the seat across from them.

“Rookie-Lookie, you’re looking glum,” Sera leaned her arms on the table, chin in her hands as she spoke. A lopsided grin on her face, which was replaced with an incredulous look soon after. 

“It’s just early.” Rook responded. They had a sip of tea, letting the bitter taste distract them and the warmth relax them.

“It’s almost noon. Were you up late? Have a late night-caller?” Sera teased. Rook couldn’t help but laugh– The mental image of Solas showing up in a sheer and scandalous silk robe and with thick makeup, batting his eyelashes and pleading “Oh, please let me tear down the veil” formed in their mind. Their smile and small laugh seemed to delight Sera. Her eyes brightened and she leaned forward.

“You did, didn’t you?” She leaned forward.

“Yes, the empress of Orlais came as a suitor to me, personally last night.” Rook drawled sarcastically, “and so I was up all night making raucous and passionate love. I saved Fereldan from another invasion, in fact.”

Sera laughed, loud and unrestrained, boisterous laughter. It drew some eyes but she didn’t care. “You’re a funny one, Rookie. But really, are you sick again? Like in Val Royeaux?” 

“No, I’m okay… Bad dreams, that’s all.” Rook thumbed the pendant that they wore. Cold metal soothed the hot rush of anxiety they felt thinking about the lasting damage the demon may have left them. “It’s been a long few weeks…”

“You can say that again,” Sera agreed. “But everyone here is so serious. Gotta do something about that… But you got a sense of humor!” 

If it was Emmrich, they’d make a bone pun. He would roll his eyes, cringe, sigh, but Manfred would laugh (in his way, with hisses and rattling bones). Emmich would still smile. They missed him, truly. They got the feeling already that Sera wouldn’t particularly like Emmrich, or his magic. 

“I try,” Rook hummed noncommittally. 

“You're an odd one..” Sera observed. Rook just shrugged. “Anyway, got stuff to do. Herald was looking for you– Got a new job already up on the Storm coast. I don’t like rain, hope he doesn’t drag me with..”

“Oh, Lovely.” Rook got up, abandoning their tea. “More travel it is.” 

***

By horse, travel to the storm coast would take a week. Lavellan had chosen to take only a small group. Soldiers and scouts had gone ahead to survey the area and send word after establishing a camp. Lavellan brought Rook, Sera, andn Vivienne. As they left Haven to get to their horses and secure their supplies, Rook found Scout Harding was accompanying them. They stood for a moment with their horse, listening to her chat enthusiastically with Lavellan. 

They per the mare’s muzzle, staring in to the powdery white snow. Once again, they were presented with just how… different Harding was. She had always been smiling, but at times it seemed more forced. With the Inquisition… It was so bright, so hopeful. So young and willing to help– Still willing to lay down her life, but perhaps not understanding the true cost, the true stakes. Nor realizing the inevitability. 

Whatever it takes. Hadn’t that been an order? They had told it to her, used it to reassure people. Whatever it takes. Was that the price? The words seemed easier than the reality, and paying that price. It had come with interest, not even the greatest merchant prince in Antiva could have taken account for it. 

Rook’s back and shoulders began to ache. They reached up, holding the pendant. 

“Let the blade pass through the flesh, let my blood touch the ground, let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice.” Andraste, 7:12. 

Rook repeated the line in their head, again, and again, before crossing around to the horse’s left side and pulled themself up. They let the pain wash over their shoulders, and looked at the rest of the group. Just about ready to go… Rook hoped it wasn’t much longer before they could return home. Time healad all wounds, but this time was not their own. It had only opened new ones so far. 

***

“Have you met dwarves before, Rook?” Harding asked them. They were startled to be addressed so directly. “In Tevinter, I mean.”

Rook was limbing down from their horse. They let themself drop, rather suddenly. The mare tossed her head in irritation. 

“Yeah,” They answered without thinking, without the usual stilt intheir voice. Harding looked at them inquisitively, expectantly. They continued to explain, with  more hesitation this time. “I was… friends with a couple dwarves. We went on a job together… It, uh, it went wrong.” Silence stretched for a moment. Harding slowly comperehended what Rook’s words meant. 

“Oh,” She gasped. The fire cracked and popped as Lavellan got it running, glancing towards their conversation. “I’m so sorry.”

“...Me too.” Rook looked into the fire. “I, also met some from Kal-Sharok.” 

“Kal-Sharok!?” Harding’s eyes widened. “No way! They only opened up ten years ago, now! They’re still so secretive..” 

“They are,” Rook agreed. They weren’t sure how they would spin this– It occurred to them , that the others could easily think them to be mad, or more likely just a liar. “My friend… she needed help. Kal-Sharok had.. Better resources for her, than Orzammar. And not as many superstitions.” 

Harding, older, hurting from Varric’s loss (they hadn’t even known it. She never knew they didn’t know.), reeling from the discovery of her magic, needing answers from the Oracle. Talking to a younger Harding, even for a fraction of it, was surreal. Was this dangerous? How could it change her? Or would she pay it no mind? Could they wanr her? Stop her fate, find another way, or was the path set, no matter their actions? Or were they going to be forced to guide her to it, again. Questions swirled around Rook’s mind. 

“Did it help?” Harding asked. “Did ou go to Kal-Sharok?”

“Yes,” Rook ndoded. “And yes, it helped. Later, anyway. Until she… She..” They couldn’t dare say it to her face. Pretend like they weren’t looking into the younger, brighter eyes of the friend they had loved so dearly, and lost. 

“I’m so sorry! I don’t mean to bring up anything painful.” Harding put a hand over her mouth.

“I know, it’s okay Harding. You didn’t mean to. And.. it isn’t hard, for it to come up.” Their shoulders twinged. “It was… fairly recent.”

“Still, I–” She began to say. Rook suddenly recalled the conversation with Harding and Lucanis so many months ago, over coffee. A tiny dwarven girl in a world full of strange, giant farmers.

“It’s truly fine. I promise. I’m.. processing. But it isn’t your fault.” It was theirs, right? And it was her fate. Which they would be condeming her to, if they left…. They pushed the thought from their mind quickly. That opened a whole other Fade rift, with revanants they couldn’t (wouldn’t) name. 

“I… Hope you’re okay.” Harding told them.

“I will be.” They went to sit by the fire. They couldn’t look Harding in the eyes anymore. As if saying to her that her sacrifice was okay, because they would be. Like it hadn’t saved the world. Harding smiled at them; reassuring– like the stone beneath their feet. 

Rook clutched Cassandra’s pendant so hard, it dug into their palm, almost painfully. It was sharper, more demanding than the ache in their shoulders. 

They wanted to think about anything else– when was the last time their head had ben clear? Rook let go of the pendant, looking to the darkiening sky. Clouds were rolling in– It was going to rain… The road to the Storm Coast was going to be a long one. 

***

Rook took first watch. The camp was set, a cluster of tents around a fire. They used magic to keep the rain off them and the fire. Then they watched. They sat outside, not altogether minding the chill in the air. They couldn’t sleep– Didn’t want to. Tired as they were, they couldn’t take the dreams. The nightmares, the invasion from Solas– He was trying to help, but they had enough of him being in their head. Enough even of being in their own head.

Perhaps staying up would give them too much time to think– So they decided to busy themself with checking the perimeter, feeding the fire, and setting wards. Something to distract. The gentle hum of their magic was soothing.They tried to hold onto the feeling but it was like everything passed by too quickly. Minutes, hours, they found themself growing bored. They sat down, watching the fire. They listened to the rain on the tops of the tents. The distant sounds of owls and the movement of the underbrush. Sometimes, they let gaps form in their barries, listening to raindrops steam and boil as it touched flame. 

“For she who trusts in the maker, fire is her water..” Rook mumbled. “Wonder how that works.”

The rain and the steam became a soothing cycle. Soon enough, their head drooped, shoulders slumped. They began to fall asleep. As soon as they noticed it, they forced themself to jolt awake. They stod, taking deep breaths of cool air, running icy hands over their face and digging nails into their cheeks. 

They awlked in a circle around the camp, feet heavy and eyelids heavier. They sat down again. Rook couldn’t fight it much longer and found the Fade, pressing in around them. Dreams capturing their attention. Shifting and disorienting all at once, it never remained on one vision. They had certainly not made much more sense of it when they woke, sleep interrupted by a cry in the night, exhaustion evaporated in a single, terrifying instance. 

A wolf was in the camp– It was massive, larger than any wolf had a right to be. More akin to a bear, with paws the size of Rook’s head and massive jaws. Which were tearing at one of the tents– Harding’s. Its eyes were aglow with bright green magic– Crazed by a rift, surely. Rook launched to their feet. They didn’t have their staff, their knife wasn’t at their belt, they had only their orb and their fists. 

“Get away!” Rook shouted, flashing forward with the force of their magic, encasing their arm in layers of ice, their orb singing with the spell. Harding wore only her night clothes, and was scrambling back into the dirt, away from the massive wolf. It was about to stomp on her when Rook got between them. Their fist slammed into the wolf. It was hardly jolted. It snarled deep and low in the back if its throat. Then lunged for Rook. Of all the things they’d done in their life, getting into a fist fight with a deranged wolf was… Probably not even on the top ten craziest things they had done. But harding didn’t know this. 

She was trying to scramble into action, snatching up her bow and desperately trying to knock an arrow. Rook was meeting the wolf for each bite it made, using their magic to withstand the force. It was inevitable that they missed, and inevitable that the wolf clamped down with massive jaws on their iced-over arm. It should have broken the wolf’s teeth– Instead, they felt the ice crunch and force come down on bone and flesh. Rook cried out, but there had been enough commotion now that the others were waking, trying to get into action. Twin blasts of ice and fire slammed into the wolf. It’s jaws loosened and Rook fell to the ground. They curled around their arm, trying to tell through all the pain and aches if it was broken or not, but it was just impossible to tell.

“Rook! Rook, are you okay!?” Harding rushed over, gently rolling them open. “Hey… Hey!”
“I’m fine– It– My arm might be broken,” Rook wheezed out. They couldn’t even remark in their mind about how familiar this felt. 

“Let me see.” Vivienne went over.

“Is– The wolf is gone?” Rook looked around. Had they blacked out?

“It ran off, injured. It hopefully won’t return..” Vivienne crouched in front of them. “Let me see your arm.”

They extended their arm, wincing in pain as it lanced up their arm. Thick blood dripped from their wounds, mixing with ice and creating a sort of red, chunky slush that came off of them. Vivienne began to work, clearing the blood away and working in some magic that pulled the bones into place and began to mend them.

“Quite a wound, but no more grizzly than anything else on the battlefield…” Vivienne commented as she worked. She made delicate motions with her fingers, like each movement conducted an invisible needle sewing a wound shut. “But you’ve lost a bit of blood already.”

“I can tell.” Rook was dizzy and the edges of their senses were rather fuzzy.

“You saved my life..” Harding murmured. “Another second and that would have been my throat…” 

“All in–” Rook winced. “A day’s work.” They owed her. They owed her so many times over. It was only right. It was only right to save her now (but was she still a sacrificial lamb for later..?)

“Hush, darling, you need rest.” Vivienne’s words were gentle but tone was firm. 

“No… No, I don’t want to sleep..” Rook whispered. “I’m tired of the dreams…”

“It is probably safe to stay awake.” Lavellan came up on the edge of their vision– He must have been searching the woods. “There’s a rift nearby, but I wasn’t going to take it on by myself. And…” He sighed. “By the Dread wolf..” 

Probably. Rook wanted to say, but they weren’t so delirious that their secret would get out. But as Vivienne went to argue with Lavellan about how Rook should sleep, they passed out anyway. They were growing irritated with being injured, and with passing out about it, truly.

Chapter Text

Neve stared down at her bed. It was covered in belongings, folded clothes, and armor to wear. Extra padding for her prosthetic, a handful of green elf-root paultices. There was more; everything she needed for the trip to Vyrantium. She knew there was nothing else to bring. She had packed and unpacked her belongings three times. She needed it just so, she needed it… she didn’t know how. Neve just knew running down the simple list of belongings was something she needed to do, like a list of clues, but she had already sorted it all out. 

Neve let out a sigh and sat in a nearby armchair. She gripped the arm-rests, tapped her fingers, stared at the pile on her bed. She did more than skip rocks when she was stuck on a case. Lately, she’d go to Rook. Except, Rook was gone. Had been for months. She’d barely slept. Her dreams were fraught with nightmares. It had been dead end after dead end. 

She’d turned to another method for teasing out thoughts– Lists. Neve hadn’t gotten through the list of things to pack, though. She had reviewed it again and again. 

She’d made no further progress on Rook’s case, but she’d also worn herself out enough that the daydreams and spiraling thoughts couldn’t reach her. Neve sank into her chair, head tilted towards the ceiling. She took deep breaths, but the air wasn’t charged enough. Before, it had always been charged with the low hum of Rook’s magic. They were trained in and preferred ice– But it was a conscious choice. She had noted that many times, when struck or in peril… It was far more natural to reach for the crackling energy and warping heat of lightning magic. As such their rhythm in the fade became a low hum, a drawn out frequency that changed the air around them. It made her hair stand on end. For months, her hair had been limp, her energy drained. The one person she could reliably turn to for help… Gone.

A knock at her door– She inclined her head. 

“Come in.” She told whoever was behind the door. Neve was never alone for long, these past months. Not physically, anyway. People had come and gone– Bellara, Emmrich, Rana… Even Tarquin, taciturn as the man was.

“Neve,” Lucanis greeted– his voice was gentle, sweet but that had long become a subconscious practice. Neve wasn’t oblivious– guarded as the man was, she could pick up on his attraction to her easily. They’d never needed to broach the subject. He knew her heart lay with Rook, with Minrathous. She knew he needed to help Treviso, to deal with Spite. It wasn’t just circumstances that kept them apart. It was respect, and another type of care. From afar. “Are you ready to leave for Vyrantium?”

“No.” Neve looked up at Lucanis from her chair. He wore less armor this time– simple leather with stylized silver stitching, making up the design of feathers. He had some metal feather designs, too. It was still fancy, fit for a talon. His beard was more kempt and the long part of his hair pulled back in a tight bun, pinned by two sticks that were absolutely concealing blades. 

“Ah,” Lucanis followed her gaze as it moved to her bed. “Needed a list?”

Neve gave a simple nod. Lucanis crossed the room.

“Let me  help. You list, I pack?” He suggested. Again, Neve nodded. Lucanis knelt beside her bed, beginning to pack. 

He packed away clothes delicately, and she listed off each item as she went. With each one, memories and images were brought to mind. 

Shirt– Hadn’t she worn that beneath her robes when they watched in horror at slaves being sacrificed for blood, like it was some kind of natural resource?

Boots– She had two, despite usually only having one made, rather than a pair. Hadn’t she used that to hide her prosthetic when infiltrating the venatori in the crater?

Lucanis caught her expression.

“Neve, are you…” He knew the answer before the question even left his mouth. “What do you need me to do?”

“I don’t know.” She had to work to keep her voice from breaking. She’d sooner give up the case, than admit to the magnitude of what she was feeling. “I…”

“Neve.” Lucanis went to her, kneeling by her chair. “Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking.. It’s okay to miss Rook. This is… Hard.”

“They were my foundation, Lucanis.” Neve’s voice broke. She could barely utter the sentence, and was even surprised at herself for admitting something so raw. “I can only count on so much. Most of it isn’t good. I kept telling them– No promises. There was always a chance… I keep looking for them. They always came back. Always promised, too damn headstrong not to. And dammit, I started believing them.” 

Damn you, detective. She chided herself in her mind. You got yourself in too deep.

Lucanis listened, watched. Spite stirred in the back of his mind. Salt and fresh snow– The ocean always made them edgy… But neve’s coolness had been a comfort. Neve needed that now, too. And for Rook…

“Rook is a hero. And they’re… impossible. If they don’t find a way to claw back from whatever time they’re in… We’ll find a way to pull them back.”

Neve sniffled curled in on herself. “They were always so worried for you. For Spite. After Treviso…”

“I don’t blame them for Treviso,” Lucanis interrupted. “We talked that out some time ago. It was already overrun by antaam– if not for that, perhaps we’d have won against the dragon… But I have no interest in looking back. Only forward. We have time to reckon with the rest.”

Nerve closed her eyes, let it sink in.

“Can we keep packing?” She asked. Lucanis said nothing, just continued.

Her hat… She’d needed it repaired several times throughout their battles with the gods and their lackeys. After defeating the blighted dragon hidden in the crossroads, Neve had been too tired to do much about the damage. Rook, exhausted and injured themself, had taken the hat to Minrathous, and had it specifically fixed. They'd gifted it back to her, and she’d pretended she was surprised– but she had been every bit as touched by the gesture as she had portrayed. 

“Lucanis…” Neve interrupted as he packed one of her notebooks.
Before we leave for Vyrantium, will you come to the wall of light with me?”

Rarely was Neve shy. Rarely was she so tentative, but her she hesitated, here she spoke softly and with little confidence, or her usual swagger. She waited for an answer in the same way one might wait for a blow to the face, that they knew was coming.

“Of course, Neve.” Lucanis looked up at her and smiled ever so softly. Purple tinged the edges of his irises. Neve wasn’t sure if Spite was looking in, or if that was a permanent fixture from how long they had been forced together– at least 3 and a half years by now. Neve fell silent again. Lucanis picked up her last belonging– A small, carved box, with little cold embellishments and inlays. Big enough to hold a ring. Neve had gotten it several months before the venatori. She had spoken with Hal about arranging something… Then, work got in the way. Then the Venatori. There hadn’t been enough time . 

Lucanis gasped as his mind made the connection, the realization. His eyes went wide and he held the box in the palm of his hand.

“Neve…” He gently set the box with the rest of her things. She curled in on herself further, heart straining beneath her ribs, throat aching. She let out a strangled cry, fighting it but when Lucanis’s arms wrapped around her, the levy broke. She burst into tears, emotion washing over her like an avalanche that had been on the verge of falling for so, so long. Potential energy turned kinetic, turned real.

“I didn’t have enough time! There’s never enough time!” Neve wept, for sorrow, for worry, for some approximation of grief that she didn’t have a name for; except she knew her heart ached for Rook to be by her side, to come back. Like they so foolishly promised with every risk they took. The trouble she was so ready to bring into her life, no matter what. 

Lucanis held her; his arms were firm but grip with enough give that she could shake and shudder with her sobs. 

“We will get them back,” Lucanis hugged her tighter, more fiercely. “I promise you. And we will be here for you in the meantime.”

Neve sniffed louder than she wished too, her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, and she nodded. He held her until she calmed, and then she stood shakily.

“Let’s… I’ll clean up a bit, and we can go to the wall of light.”

Absolutely,” I’m right behind you.”

***

The wall of light in Minrathous was one of the first things to be rebuilt, parts of the city were still destroyed– Particularly areas where things had caved into the catacombs. The city bore many scars. Still, Docktown was partially rebuilt and the wall had been extended to accommodate the newest glowing orbs. After the disaster, many mages had gathered to volunteer and light lanterns for anyone who asked. Rook and Neve had even helped relighting lanterns for those who had no one left to light them. Now, they were mages who would stay around the clock to keep the walla aglow.

Neve took a deep breath when she saw it. It was beautiful, so many orbs gently glowing and floating through the air like wisps. But the soft crying and praying of the mourners clenched her heart each time. Even Lucanis looked somber, though he was no stranger to death, or even loss. 

Emmrich was at the wall of light. He spoke gently with mourners– Non-Mages, who he was helping. He leaned down and lit several orbs, sending them into flight with delicate motions. 

“My condolences,” The mournwatcher, put a hand on the shoulder of a young woman with dark circles under her eyes, tight curls falling over her hunched shoulders. “Allow me to light this for you.”

“Thank you, ser..” She murmured. “Could.. I trouble you to light another..? My husband… normally did it, but he…” She looked at the orb that Emmrich had taken into his hands. Emmrich understood immediately.

“It would be no trouble at all.” Emmrich told her. 

Neve swallowed, leaned on her non-prosthetic leg a little more. Lucanis put a hand on her shoulder. 

“I used to come here more often..” Neve said softly. “It felt so small, then. Some people on the wall… Like Rana’s partner, I knew them. Or how they died. Knew I had to make Dock-Town a better place for them, people like them… But there were… Normal deaths too. Age, illness, war… Tragic, but.. Individual.It reminded me of how life is, too. Perhaps even the idea that one day it would be… comforting, to die a simple death. Of Age, or a slow illness…”

Lucanis nodded his agreement. His gaze was turned upward. There were hundreds, perhaps even thousands of glowing lights like sparkling stars floating high above their heads. 

“But now…” Neve watched a little boy, standing alone, concentrate hard on an orb in his hands. He stared at it, the Fade whispered in response to his magic. It glowed, weak and flickering, but floated to join the rest. He didn’t take his eyes off it for a second. “So many of them died when the Gods attacked Minrathous… So many we didn’t save. Everything we protected when the dragon attacked, gone…”

“It was terrible,” Lucanis agreed. “But there are so many people here… here to remember, and light the lanterns.”

Neve fell silent for a long, stretching moment. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

You of all people should know to look at things in different angles, Detective. Neve looked down. Her neck ached, eyes burning a bit from looking into the light too long.

Lucanis and Neve sat in silence for some time, watching others tend to the lights. Soon enough, Emmrich came over. The necromancer said nothing, he just joined them. In his stead, Manfred helped light some of the orbs. He wore thick robes, obscuring his features— when he wasn’t with Emmrich, he sometimes hid his identity. He’d found it perturbed others less.

Neve’s enjoyed the quiet for a while, but looked at her companions eventually. “We should get moving, soon.” 

“If you’re ready.” Emmrich looked over. “It’s alright to stay.”

“I…” Neve hesitated, uncertain. Then she stood, walking over to the wall. Her leg clicked on the cobblestones beneath. Some people looked at her, watched, recognized— they knew the role she’d played in the fight against the gods. She leaned down, picking up an orb. It was cold in her hands. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the magic. It floated from her hands, wobbling through the air with weak magic. It was still a light. Her heart was heavy, as if floating away with the magic she cast. 

She felt Manfred’s presence at her back. 

“Who is it for?” Manfred asked. His voice was still high and strange- amusing, and youthful in its way. 

“It… It’s for Rook.” Neve answered very softly. Manfred made a confused kind of gurgle. “Not— They’re not gone… but… Sometimes, you need to light the way.”

Manfred gurgled his understanding. Neve smiled.

“I knew you’d get it, Fred.” Neve pat his shoulder, and went back to Emmrich and Lucanis. “Now we can go.”

***

The eluvians were useful for getting to Vyrantium. As they walked the streets, Lucanis’s expression was grim. His lips were pressed into a thin line. It was all familiar too him— Neve could tell by the way he led them through the streets. He knew where to avoid, he knew where to keep to the edges. Most people payed them no mind, too engrossed in their own lives. So many people had to rebuild in Vyrantium— it had been destroyed and besieged by the Antaam, many dead or having their minds broken by saarquamek. After the gods were defeated, and the antaam warlords broken, their hold on Vyrantium had been broken too. 

Dorian had quickly sent relief efforts towards the city, but there was little to spare when Minrathous still needed to be rebuilt. Many of the buildings had been reduced to rubble by gaatlok canons. Small refugee encampments had been built in the most intact remains. Neve didn’t let her eyes linger on the destruction for too long. It stung. 

Instead she focused on Lucanis. How he held his shoulders as he walked, the sharpness of his gaze. He was weary and he was different here— Like how he’d been in the underwater prison. Like a cat fluffed up and arching its back, hissing and on edge. He Led the way to more intact buildings. Apartments, spared from much of the destruction— and the fearsome reputation of its tenants kept it free of squatters. The people knew it was a crow’s roost.

“Teia sent supplies ahead. She also said there'll be some crows waiting, at our disposal if we need help.” Lucanis told Neve. He went to hold open the front door. The building was tall and jagged, the style very much stereotypical for Tevinter Architecture, but taking inspiration from Antiva. Its silhouette was smoother and the stone was white marble, instead of black stones. “She also said there would be some.. familiar faces.”

“Familiar faces?” Neve was confused— But only for a moment, as they passed through the doors. Emmrich and Bellara filed in behind her. Bellara gasped, pushing past and running up.

“Taash! Davrin! It’s good to see you!” Bellara bounced on her feet, grinning wide, and her hair (which was in a long and thick braid) swung back and forth. Taash and Davrin were standing in the foyer. Taash grinned, wrapping one muscular arm around Bellara. 

Bellara oomphed at the force of it— it wasn’t intentional, Taash just sometimes forgot how delicate the elf was. Especially compared to Davrin, who was a verifiable walking wall of muscle. Currently a walking wall of muscle clad in warden blue and silverite riding leathers. 

“It’s good to see you too, Bellara.” Taash smiled. They patted her head and stood back. Their eyes were ringed with dark circles. Their hair was different— pulled into three braids, reminiscent of the shorter style that Harding once wore (Neve spotted a lock of red hair, contrasting starkly against Taash’s greyish-white hair.) 

“We were wondering when you were going to show,” Davrin smiled. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Neve walked over. “Where’s Assan?”

“He uh, didn’t quite fit inside.” Davrin rubbed the back of his head. He had grown his hair out into thicker locs and braids, with little silverite beads in some of them. He looked towards the window. It was open, and Assan was leaning in it. He squawked loudly. Neve had to laugh.

“Oh, he got big!” Neve gasped. Assan was, in fact, the size of a very large horse.

“And keeps getting bigger.” Davrin laughed. 

“I’m.. really glad you’re here,” Neve laughed again, this time in disbelief.  

“We couldn’t just sit this one out. Soon as Isabela told me, I got on the fastest ship back from Rivain.” Taash told her. “We’ll get Rook back.”

For a moment the weight had been lifted. Neve was seeing old friends, old comrades… But, then it all came down again. The reason they were there. Taash saw her face fall. They understood— but theirs was a loss that couldn’t be taken back. There wasn’t any hope.. There wasn’t a trace of Harding left, except her memory, and her garden. 

What would be left of Rook, if they were gone forever..? Just a story? A legend? Neve’s didn’t care about legends. Only the foundations they built, the better lives they yielded— the hope. And Rook deserved that much, with everything they’d been through. Neve’s was inclined to believe that she deserved it, too. 

Neve took a deep, steadying breath. She spoke with a resolve she didn’t quite feel yet. “Then, let’s get to work.”

***

Rook’s dreams swam with guilt. Echoes of their actions, warped versions of their mistakes. Crumbling statues of fallen heroes and the wreckage of an empire that would have cannibalized itself eventually, no matter the actions of dead and forgotten gods. The air and the fog were familiar, but they clung even as Rook slowly woke and stirred. Their arm was sore but in one piece, only thick, raised scar tissue left behind. 

They had a collection before, but the injuries they’d been taking recently… Rook was only glad they hadn’t had anything too life threatening. With the mass of demons, hostile mages, and rogue Templars, it was a wonder they hadn’t just spent the past few months bed-ridden with injuries— that anyone in the inner circle didn’t. There had been times where the others had lost consciousness in combat, from a blow to the head or something similar… But Rook certainly took the brunt of it (and they should— clearly, they could take it. And they weren’t important to the success of the Inquisition, right?)

“You’re awake. Good.” Cyrith looked over. They were in a tent. Rook lay on a cot and Cyrith sat on the ground nearby, examining his glowing hand. The light bent and refracted around his palm, everything distorted by the magical wound he carried. “We were worried… Vivienne’s magic was helpful though… She's trained for battlefields.”

Rook listened mutely. They were still waking up, shaking off dreams. Cyrith moved over, studying Rook closely. 

“You keep saving our lives, you know that, right?” Cyrith asked. He adjusted his shirt. He was wearing a loose dalish tunic— thinly woven fabric made from halla wool, warm for layers on cold days but breathable for hot days. There were lavender flowers embroidered by the collar and edges of his sleeves. Rook’s eyes caught on the purple color for a moment. Then they blinked slowly, comprehending what Cyrith was saying. “It’s impressive… but you really should be more careful.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Their intention was to be glib, but their voice was dry and flatter than they meant. They were still waking up. Cyrith snorted.

“True enough.” He agreed. “The rest of us, except you and Scout Harding, went to close the nearby rift. It wasn’t too hard between the three of us… Still, that wolf last night caught us by surprise… I’ll have to ward our camps from Fen’harel…”

Rook didn’t even want to make a joke about that last part— it would give too much away. Too soon. Too dangerous. They nodded instead and pushed themself upright. 

“It probably isn’t safe here anymore,” Rook changed the subject.

“You’re right. We planned to pull up camp and go as soon as you woke up and could move.” 

“Give me a few minutes..” Rook responded. 

“Take all the time you need… My hand is sore from the rift, anyway.” Cyrith looked down at his marked hand again.

“It hurts?” Rook asked.

“Yeah, but not much. It’s like how it is when you hold onto something too tightly, for too long.” Cyrith flexed his hand and turned over his wrist, watching the pale glow of the anchor. “Not like when I first woke up, after the breach…”

“You… did seem in pain. When Solas and I helped take care of you..” Rook studied Cyrith’s face. Cyrith looked solemn, tired. Like his hand weighed a thousand pounds. It meant more than he wanted it to, clearly.

“Probably the worst pain I’ve ever been in my entire life.” Cyrith clenched his fist. “I kind of hope it will go away, once the breach closes… But, we just… don’t know how it works. Or where it came from.”

Rook did… But there was no reliable way to tell Cyrith about it. They kept quiet. They moved to get up slowly, not nearly as sore as they thought they’d be. They had a feeling they would be, after they got to the Storm Coast.

***

“Can’t we go somewhere with nice weather?” Rook groaned, nearly slipping on wet rocks and mud for the umpteenth time. They had to lean on their staff for more stability. There was an utter downpour, and occasional bolts of lightning and cracks of thunder. 

“That would make saving the world too easy!” Cyrith shouted over his shoulder. 

“I like cities better!” Sera groaned, trying her best to keep up in the hard gusts of winds. “Stupid storm coast being… all storms. Eugh.”

“We’re almost there! Harding went to scout ahead, and meet our soldiers!” Cyrith kept pushing forward. “Hopefully the storm dies down by then, and we don’t have to stop!”

Rook was inclined to agree about the storm. Their robes were soaked through, sticking uncomfortably to their skin. It reminded them of trekking through the Hossberg wetlands. Soaked through everywhere, surrounded by darkspawn and other dangers at all times. They’d had to wrestle a cursed scarecrow to the ground, once… They’d been covered in mud. They’d gotten back to Lavendel and Neve had been there, and they’d laughed themselves hoarse about how bad it was. Rook was the only one who came back in such a state, after all. 

It was several more hours of walking before a camp was visible in the distance. The rain let up enough that they could walk more stably. Rook was relieved. When they arrived, Harding was there waiting with other scouts who were setting up tents and supplies. A few soldiers were around, but the main company was nowhere to be seen. Rook had a sinking feeling about that. 

“We should talk to Harding, then head down to find this Iron Bull,” Cyrith told the group. He ran ahead, and Harding smiled as he approached.

“Your worship! For what it’s worth, welcome to the Storm Coast!” Harding crossed her arms behind her back. Wafts of her red hair were out of the braids she kept on her head, sticking to her head from the wet of rain. “I’d have sent word back sooner but… efforts have been… delayed.”

“How so?” Cyrith frowned. That wasn’t good.

“There’s a group of bandits in the area– They know the terrain, and our small party has had trouble going up against them. When I got here, the soldiers had already been dealing with them for a little while.. Some went to speak with their leader. But we haven’t heard back.”

“I’ll do what I can, as soon as I can, to find out people,” Cyrith promised.

“Thank you, your worship… That’s a relief.” Harding smiled. “The soldiers didn’t have an exact location for the bandits, but they were starting their search further down the beach.” 

“We’ll take a look.” Cyrith nodded.

“Well, Good luck… And enjoy the sea air. I hear it's good for the soul.” Harding smiled, and went to speak with other scouts. 

Rook thought of Harding on the beaches in Rivain. Thought of her and Taash spending time digging for sea-shells (Harding using her magic to cheat). Harding could have gone with the Lords of Fortune. Could have gone on pirate ships and seen so much of the world, would have reveled in it, a new terrain to scout. Rook was broken out of their thoughts as they bumped into Sera.

“Hey, careful!” She looked at them. “Uh, you in there, Rookie?”

“Sorry,” Rook shook their head. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

“Well… Start paying attention. Maybe. Don’t want to fall in the mud.” She wrinkled her nose. 

“Right. Will do.” Rook nodded. “I think we’re going down the hill.. Maybe I should walk in front, so I don’t take us both down?”

“Eh, sounds good to me.” Sera gave a shrug. 

They descended the hill, trying not to slip as they made their way down. The sounds of fighting were soon close enough to hear– The Iron Bull’s Chargers were already engaged in combat with the Venatori. The party rushed up to find the rocky beach stained with blood. 

Rain poured down, splattering off bodies and blades sticking out from the rocky, sandy shore. The tide crashed in, foaming and sloshing with red blood. The chargers were a decent company, about fifty mercenaries from all kinds of kin and creed. There were venatori moving around the battlefield like ants– Harlequins and mages, twisting and fighting with blade and blood-magic. A red-haired warrior dashed forward wielding a sword and a shield, cutting down a swift-footed harlequin who had tried and failed to flip out of the way. An elf with dots and complex lines of vallaslin fired a bolt from a strange looking bow that was almost certainly magic, from the way that the air resonated with power. 

Rook just barely saw a figure dash across the field, followed by a series of explosions that blew a venatori mage right off their feet. Standing above them all was a massive, bulky qunari. He wore absurd pants with stripes, and a thick leather harness with intricate, delicate embossment that went over his shoulder and chest. He heaved a massive stylized great-axe over his broad, muscular shoulders. It cleaved a venatori warrior in half like flesh and armor and bone were nothing, water that bent and parted to the will of the axe-head. The qunari let out a warcry, a grin crossing his blood-splattered face. 

Rook turned to look at their companions. Sera’s eyes were trained across the battlefield, instinct and curiosity both, but when she saw the Bull she got a far-away look— some kind of mental image was crossing her mind. Rook could have sworn she whispered, “too bad that’s not a woman… woof…” 

Vivienne held a cool stare, taking in the battle but offering no opinion on it. She had a tactician’s sharpness, though. She was making some kind of calculation. Cyrith, though… His eyes were wide, mouth slightly agape. He didn’t take his eyes off of the one-eyed Qunari. 

Then, Rook saw it. The venatori that moved around the battlefield mostly wore the old, original version of the robes– Something more akin to the robes that the ancient Tevinter priests and cultists wore. There were many elements of that style remaining in the venatori Rook was familiar with, but most had been forced to cover their faces, some adopting masks in the style of Orlais (but with darker twists). 

There was more color on the robes of these venatori, flares and spikes coming off, fabric folded into peaks and decadent layers for mages or sleek, practical cuirasses for rogues, and the style for the warriors was similar to the style of the military, but with different colors. But Rook spotted the one who didn’t– Wearing a black robe and wielding two long, red-lyrium sickles. He had a mask with a thin pointy nose and no mouth, holes for the eyes which were hazy from the lyrium. And the mage had appeared on the qunari’s blind-side. 

They had to act– This venatori, they weren’t meant to be here. Just as Rook was not meant to be there, this was an anomaly, a danger— An instability. The others still watched, but Rook leapt forward. 

“Watch out!” Rook shouted across the field. The Qunari’s head shot up, a little surprised. He was an experienced fighter– But he hadn’t faced this. The red-lyrium was new. The blood magic the Venatori learned to use with it, something that could make them invisible and undetectable– Their shout had drawn the eyes of the venatori, too. The mage’s eyes widened with terror, and then recognition. They changed targets, leaping out of the way of a wide sweep from the Iron Bull’s axe. He dug the sickles into the ground, having been on a great rock above the field, and threw himself forward towards Rook with a snarl.

”Damn you!” The mage shouted in Tevene. He raised his sickles. Rook planted their feet and threw up a barrier, which the sickles bounced off uselessly. The venatori skittered back, circling. The other fighting was dying down– many of the venatori were dead, bodies being pushed and pulled in the tide, blood draining out onto the field. “Lucerni Rattus!”

Rook snarled. “You don’t belong here.” They launched with their staff, bringing it up to strike the venatori hard and send a pulse of magic through the air. 

“Neither do you!” the venatori cackled, catching their staff with the sickles and yanking it out of Rook’s hands. It tumbled into the frothing water below. They leapt back before blood could be drawn. It didn’t matter– The venatori wasn’t stupid, and there was plenty of blood around to use. He holstered the sickles at his side and took up the staff. Water and blood streamed off of it. The blood rose up, though, separating from water like it was made of thick oil, heading towards the top of the staff. 

“Blood magic!” The others weren’t just watching numbly, but the venatori’s changed attention had renewed the attack from the others. Rook focused ahead, despite Vivienne’s shout. 

They reached out with their own magic. They had seen Neve counter blood magic dozens of times, and knew how it worked. Knew how to counter and break the resonance, a new harmony cutting across the fade and severing the blood. The magic twisted and went discordant. Rook let out a shout of rage and drew their mage-knife. They dashed forward and shoved off the ground, tackling the venatori and jamming their blade deep into their ribs. Magic exploded in their palm, crackling energy that electrified the water and the blood. It was more than just wild electricity– It was magic, and it had intent behind it. Only the venatori dropped dead, muscles jolting and clenching, some of them biting through their tongues or shattering teeth. The venatori below seized and thrashed with the force of their magic, flesh and robes fried and stinking. The water boiled off in steam and hissed in the air around them. 

Rook stood slowly, standing back and looking down at their handy-work. The venatori lay dead and his body was being pulled out to see, jaw slack and face burnt down to charcoal and sinew, teeth exposed and skin melted away. They followed the body, leaning down and picking up the red-lyrium sickles. They sent a pulse of magic through it– energy and power, electric and wild but unbinding, like countering blood magic but more than just breaking and stopping–Purifying. The sickles burst and shattered into shards. Rook dropped the remains of the weapons, and spat. 

“ Na din’an sahlini , bastard.” Rook growled, then leaned down and scooped up their staff. They didn’t want to use it– A thing tainted with blood magic, but they were certain they would find no replacement on the Storm Coast. 

Just as they were going to turn, the air shuddered. The waves crashed, the water bursting with magic. They were thrown back by a wave of force. The air twisted and shuddered. They looked up with wide eyes– The fade was twisting and they could feel it. The rain fell upwards, the tide moved in a pattern the opposite of before. Bodies twisted upright, but they were still dead, only mimicking the position they had been in before magic exploded again. They stumbled, falling onto the sharp rocks of the beach. Then things began to return to normal, rain falling down again, but the water was filling in a crater where the venatori’s body had been. Rook stared at it with wide eyes. Their heart thundered in their ears. Their blood rushed and their thoughts raced with realization.

“Temporal magic!” Rook leapt to their feet, rushing over to the crater, trying to find anything that might have been left behind. Any kind of trace– Something– Maybe they could get back. 

“That was… Quite a show.” The Iron Bull sauntered over, holding his axe over his shoulder. “You know these guys?”

Oh, shit. Rook looked up. They had to lie, and they had to lie fast . Or… Tell just enough of the truth. 

“They’re called Venatori,” Rook answered, looking into Bull’s eye for a moment. It narrowed slightly but that was the only change to his relaxed expression. “They’re Tevinter cultists who want supremacy. I’ve made it something of a career to hunt them down, and kill them, and usually free their slaves.” 

The others were rushing over, having minor injuries from the other venatori– the ones from the current time. 

“Why were they here?” Cyrith asked.

“I.. I don’t know.” They knew, generally, why the venatori were there. They knew, generally, that they were evil and in league with Corypheus to tear apart the Fade and take over the south. This group, specifically? They hadn’t the faintest clue. 

“Why didn’t you tell us about them before?” Cyrith frowned. He was puzzling something out– Something that was clearly eating at his thoughts as he studied Rook closely. They swallowed, took a step back.

“It’s complicated– And it would have been dangerous. They probably have spies, I can’t be sure where they’re watching. And they didn’t know I was here, and I wasn’t sure if they were, either.” not the ones they got thrown back in time with– But this had been a confirmation.

“Right… I think I could have killed that one on my own, though.” The Iron Bull commented.

“Maybe.” Rook shrugged. “But they use Blood Magic. And Red Lyrium– In a way that hasn’t been seen before.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cyrith frowned deeply. Rook was sweating from all the questions, and glad to be soaked in enough rain that it wasn’t obvious. 

“Well in this case, literally not seen..” Rook sighed. “The venatori I’ve encountered have different fighting styles. The ones who wield sickles like that use blood magic to turn invisible and attack by surprise.”

“Shit,” The Iron Bull hissed. “Well, they’re dead now.”

“Yeah…” Rook sighed. 

“What about that explosion?” Vivienne spoke up. “That was quite out of the ordinary.”

“I… I don’t know.” Rook admitted. They had a hunch– But again, not something that would make any sense to the group. They felt eyes on them. “Hopefully, we can find out.”

“Right…” The Iron Bull looked around. “Krem, how’d we do?”

“Five or six wounded chief– No dead!” The red haired warrior from before spoke up. There was already a medic tending to the wounded men.

“That’s what I like to hear! Let the throat-cutters finish up, then break out the casks!” 

Krem nodded. Cyrith took the chance to approach. 

“So,” The Iron Bull leveled him with a stare. “You’re with the inquisition, huh? Come on, have a seat. Drinks are coming.”

Cyrith blinked, confused. It was… An odd place to drink, Rook had to admit. Then they thought of Taash and the Lords of Fortune… The Iron Bull would fit right in. 

“Iron Bull, I presume?” Cyrith decided on his answer. He was trying to keep his eyes up, but he had to crane his head.

“Yeah, the horns usually give it away.” The Iron Bull gestured for him to follow. Cyrith obliged. They continued their conversation a little ways away. Rook looked at the crater that was left behind.

“You’re quite a skilled mage.” Vivienne stood beside them. “I’ve never seen blood magic countered like that.”

“It’s a trick I picked up from my partner… She specializes in countering blood magic, and ice magic, as well as enchantments,” Rook responded. Perhaps thoughtlessly. It wasn’t wise to reveal such a thing. 

“I see. It’s impressive, although…” Vivienne studied them. “You’re keeping many secrets.”

Her eyes were narrowed. Rook met them, met her hard, calculating glare. 

“So is everyone. The Inquisition is new– Most of it… isn’t so much a secret as it is… just unclear if I need to share it or not.” They hoped that sufficed as a dodge. 

It seemed to, as Vivienne turned and went to help heal the injured, twirling her staff gracefully. Rook looked back over at the Iron Bull and Cyrith. The Iron Bull was talking to Krem, face turned away from Cyrith– Rook supposed that was a good thing, because Cyrith had that wide-eyed, dazed with attraction look on his face again. 

“But we just opened them! With axes !” Krem complained to the Iron Bull.

He laughed. “So? Try and seal them. You’re Tevinter right? Try blood magic.” Krem groaned a groan only possible because they had clearly endured the teasing about being Tevinter for some time. 

Lavellan stood and approached, gathering his composure. 

“The Iron Bull and his company will be joining the Inquisition.” As if there were any doubt of that. They had been pummeling the Venatori until the one from Rook’s time had shown up. “And he’ll be helping us while we’re still in the Storm Coast– We still have to find those missing soldiers, and Leliana sent word about Grey Wardens in the area that we should look into.”

Rook nodded their understanding. The cold and wet was seeping into their very bones, but they took a deep breath and pushed on. Focus on the task ahead, and not the questions that they dreaded answering when they got back to camp. But maybe, when they slept, they could speak with Solas and tell him about the Venatori encounter. Maybe it was a piece of the puzzle that would bring them home.

Chapter Text

Lightning danced across the sky and the clouds were still as thick as ever, mirroring the foaming of the water. The tide rasped violently against the rocks as the group moved along the beach. They had grown in size, Lavellan taking up the front of the group, then Vivienne, then Rook. Behind them was Sera, holding her bow at the ready. She had been asking them questions about the venatori who could turn invisible, and was now a bit paranoid that something would jump out at her. Rook wanted to reassure her that wouldn’t happen… But, to be honest, they couldn’t. It wasn’t entirely unlikely. 

The Iron Bull had taken up the rear. Part of them was a little paranoid about this– They knew he wasn’t hostile, but with how they’d been raised, they had to be weary of having a hulking qunari at their back– A ben-Hassrath qunari, at that. They brushed off the feeling, only weary because.. If anyone could see through their lies, it was a professional liar. They had to be careful, less clumsy with their words. They were keeping their mouth shut as they continued along the coast, looking for signs of the missing soldiers or the bandits. Lavellan knelt down occasionally, trying to scout things out. 

“So, Rook, huh?” The Iron Bull turned his attention to them, reaching up to flick water off his brow. It was running down his horns and into his face, and with his hindered vision it was surely irritable. “That’s an odd name.”

Rook gave an amicable laugh. “It's a little amusing to have a Qunari tell me my name is weird.”

“We have names under the Qun.” The Iron Bull responded. “But I suppose they are more… Job titles.”

“My name is a little like that, too.” They told him, but did not offer much explanation. The Iron Bull’s head tilted, and Rook wondered if it strained his neck (hardly, given all the bulging muscles, but had it before? Did he have to get used to the weight of the horns as they came in? They were much bigger than Taash’s). “Just… less clear than a name that means thinker, or footsoldier, or liar.”

“Did you pick it?” The Iron Bull asked. “Names in the south aren’t like Qunari names. Ashkaari, Sten, or Hissrad… They aren’t as clear, but you give them meaning still. Ideals.”

“It was given to me.” Rook recounted the occasion with Varric in their memories— but just for a moment. It stung and wasn’t ground they could retread. But they thought of Neve, and Dumat Plaza, and meanings. “I think in a way it meant… finding the way forward. While still protecting..? Well, it stuck better than anything else did.”

The Iron Bull hummed thoughtfully, and the conversation faded. 

Thunder rolled overhead once again. Rook adjusted their gate as they nearly slipped and rolled their ankle on a rock. They caught themself by planting their staff into the ground. 

“I'd really like to get out of this rain… I hate wet climates.” Rook complained. It rained a lot in Dock-Town– A result of the location on the coast and the layout of the city– but not like this. 

“Once we find the missing soldiers. Then, we can rest and we can–” Cyrith began to promise. Then his eyes went wide. He threw up his staff, blocking a blade as a rogue in blue and tan armor burst from the shadows of a nearby wreckage. Magic crackled in the air immediately, and he blasted the rogue away with a mental blast. 

The others leapt into action. Vivienne drew an ethereal spirit blade, raindrops hissed and buzzed as they came into contact with its spectral surface. Sera knocked an arrow and leapt to the side. She somehow found perfect footing in spite of the slick rocks they were walking on. The Iron Bull drew up a massive axe and went to Cyrith’s side. He was ostensibly meant to be Cyrith’s new mercenary bodyguard, after all. 

The new rogue– a bandit, perhaps one of the ones they were hunting was joined by several others wearing similar blue and tan armor. Two warriors and a third with a bow, flanked by hulking grey mabari. The mabari snarled and barked, lunging forward as they were let off their leashes by the bandit with a bow– presumably their handler. Rook drew up their staff. They pulled in all the feelings of cold and wet, trying to focus it into their magic as the mabari raced up and past the Iron Bull’s blind side. Cyrith was using his staff to keep the dual-wielding rogue at bay and the Iron Bull’s intimidating presence and wide swings with his axe cut down one of the warriors in a matter of moments. At the same time, Rook was set upon by the mabari. Their barks were sharp and their snarls echoed. 

Their ears rang with memories and the icey magic at the end of their staff sprayed wildly, twisting and warping into crackling electricity instead. The mabari went down in heaps of convulsing muscle and burnt pelt. Rook cringed and turned, thrusting out their staff to send more lightening arching towards the bowman firing arrows in a volley with Sera. Their magic connected before her arrows did and she made a frustrated sound, but turned her attention over to one of the remaining warriors. He was good and held a shield that had blocked the worst of the bows from Vivienne’s spectral sword and the Bull’s brute force, but Sera’s arrows were quick and sly. They whizzed past the shield. Sera fired three arrows in rapid succession, two landing in the warrior’s arms and the third finally lodging itself in the warrior's arm. 

All that remained was the dual wielding rogue, who had been nimble enough to avoid death. Still, seeing his companions fall so swiftly gave him pause. He leapt back from a swipe of the Iron Bull’s axe.

“Wait, wait!” The rogue held up his blades in surrender. The Bull looked like he was about to ignore the plea and attack anyway, but stopped short as Cyrith stepped forward. The two already seemed to be moving in sync. Rook wasn’t sure if this was from an instant connection or just how well trained the Iron Bull was after years on the battlefield. 

“Now you’re willing to talk?” Cyrith held his staff tight. His body was pulled taught in a threatening posture. “You seemed certain in attacking us just moments ago.”

“Clearly, I’ve– I’ve seen the light.” The rogue laughed, humorless and clear that he was basically petrified. “Please, listen– I didn’t sign up for this kind of… Maker’s mercy, listen– Our leader, he’s…. He’s not a good man. He’s making us do all of this, but my life isn’t worth this shit!”

“Do all of what?” Lavellan glared hard. He pointed his staff. The rogue looked like he was about to shit his pants, and Rook would be lying if it wasn’t a little amusing. 

“Your soldiers– The ones you’re probably looking for? We’ve seen the scouts.” The rogue spoke fast, knowing he was surely short on time. “I can tell you where they are, if you let me live.”

Lavellan held his staff level. His gaze bore into the rogue’s. “Fine. Where are they? Are they hurt?”

“That– That I don’t know. But they’re holed up, up the hill. Our men were fighting them, last I heard, before we were sent to keep sweeping the coast. Please, that’s all I know.” He spoke fast and his hands were shaking. Lavellan drew back, planting his staff blade into the ground. 

“Go. This is your only chance.” Lavellan pointed down the coast. The rogue nodded and nearly slipped in the mud as he scrambled to run away. Lavellan turned to the group. “Come on, let's get up the hill. From the sound of it, the soldiers are in trouble.”

***

Getting to the top of the hill was an ordeal that Rook didn’t want to repeat. They breathed hard and leaned on their staff, feeling the blade sink into the mud. It was a very steep hill, and the final crest of their journey had included dodging away from falling rocks. Of course the moment they fully reached the top, they were under attack. Three archers, two warriors, and a handler for the three mabari that rushed forward. Their jaws snapped and teeth gnashed, going to bite and tear at The Iron Bull’s shin-guards. He kicked and swung his heavy axe around. It collided with a mabari. The hound wailed and flopped over with a meaty thud. Rook cringed at the sight of its caved in ribs, but quickly yanked their staff out of the mud. Their ice still wasn’t responding, and lightning sprayed wildly from the end of their staff. The swords of the warriors acted as beacons, as lightning rods. They convulsed violently, bodies flung by the force of their muscles contracting. Vivienne took her chance and drew her spectral blade, slashing through the warrior’s weak hide armor with ease. 

There was still the matter of the archers. Sera was firing arrow after arrow, but these bandits evidently knew how to dodge, and were better shots than Rook had given them credit before. One of them had run out of arrows, but the threat wasn’t over. They threw down their bow and drew out twin daggers, running onto the field, towards Sera. 

“Shit, Shit!” She wasn’t used to being rushed like that, and fighting in the open wilderness wasn’t in her style. Sera reeled back, and tripped over herself and the slick rocks, toppling to the ground. Her bow made a wooden clatter as she dropped it and arrows sprayed behind her from her quiver. She snatched one up, swinging the tip wildly as the bandit leapt atop her. 

“Sera!” Cyrith looked over his shoulder, but he was holding up a barrier so that the Iron Bull could drink a poultice after yanking several arrows out of his forearm without getting hit with even more arrows. Vivienne was far across the field dealing with another archer, flinging ice spells with expert precision. This left Rook, but there were two mabari weaving circles around them. They didn’t attack, just snarled and nipped at their heels. Like it was herding them. Rook swung their staff and tried to knock the dogs away, not relishing the idea of killing an animal that was only attacking because it had been ordered to do so. 

Sera let out a cry, jabbing at the bandit on her with an arrow, desperately flailing and trying to grab for a dagger. 

“Damnit, damnit– Get– Off!” Rook slammed their staff down, a wave of ice rolling over the ground in a ten-foot radius before them. It crackled and spiked outwards in a wave, catching rain and the puddles. The mabari squealed for merely a moment as they were impaled on thick crystalline spires of ice. Rook propelled themself forward with yet more ice, but the chill in the air made their fingers numb and their muscles felt cramped and tight and wrong. They barely had time to fire off another spell to get the bandit off of Sera. By then it was merely a gust of strong wind that cast a thin sheet of frost over the ground and Sera. She pulled herself away once the weight was off of her, yanking her bow and quiver off the ground, and firing arrow after arrow into what was now the last remaining bandit. 

“Stay– The fuck! OFF!” She shouted, firing wildly. She was up pretty close so it didn’t have a lot of force, but it was enough to hurt and enough to kill after about the fifth arrow. 

“Sera! Sera,” Cyrith rushed over, giving Rook’s ice a wide berth while he was at it. “Are you okay?”

Sera breathed hard, huffing and shaking, but she drew herself up to her full height, and spat at the corpse of the bandit. “Fine. Great. Dandy. Now that those lot are all gone.”

“We will need a more cohesive plan of attack.” The Iron Bull commented as he slotted his axe into a holster that went around his back. 

“It would certainly do us well to have a bit of team-work.” Vivienne made her way over, seemingly unfazed by the same battle-fatigue that the rest of them were starting to notice. Rook was less bothered, though the extra weight of their soaked robes and the thick mud they had to move through was getting to them. Not to mention their magic… Rook looked at the ice they had cast. It was all so out of control, their lightning magic had been acting up, and the ice magic they had honed… It was like they had lost a part of themself, but they had no idea what. Or rather, like something had been taken from them. Rook cringed and looked away. 

“So… where are the soldiers?” Rook asked and looked around. The hill was full of trees and the ruins of a bandit camp, crates stacked atop one another and fire pits that had long since been drowned by the rain. There were also the desiccated ruins of two cabins, one with an attached stable. The place had been abandoned for some time. A thick, fetid smell filled the air, too. It was thicker with a gust of wind and it made Rook’s stomach turn. That was not a smell that made them feel optimistic about the chances of the soldiers they were looking for. 

“Come on, let’s find out.” Cyrith went to look through the ruins of the cabins, starting with the one that had an attached stable. They found some abandoned supplies there, and even some decent alcohol that Cyrith stowed in his pack. There wasn’t much sign of the soldiers. There was another cabin, and as they approached, hope died in Rook’s chest. The smell coming from the cabin, and the sound of the flies buzzing…. They weren’t going to have an appetite for some time. 

“Oh, maker..” Rook looked at the door to the cabin, then at Cyrith. Cyrith’s face had gone pale and he held up his marked hand to his mouth and over his nose, trying to block the worst of the eye-watering smell. Then, he nudged the door open. The creaking was drowned out by rolling thunder. As was Cyrith’s gag. He scrambled back from the door the instant he processed what was within. Rook, on the other hand, was frozen in place. The sight… wasn’t pretty.  They were sure that a few years ago, they’d have lost their lunch at it. The fact that they only felt mildly nauseous now… They weren’t sure what that said about them; if it made them a bad person because it didn’t faze them as much. Or, didn’t seem to. Except that they were rooted to the spot, eyes wide.

The bodies of the soldiers had been ravaged. Arrows stuck out of some, others had deep wounds that they hadn’t been able to treat with meager supplies. It seemed like they had holed up in the cabin, but it hadn’t been enough to protect them. Other parts of the bodies had been torn apart– not by wildlife, but by the mabari the bandits had. Teeth had torn muscle and ligament. Rook’s eyes were fixed to one corpse which had its face partly torn away, the cartilage showing signs that it had been gnawed on . Exposed bone and torn flesh filled their vision. They were being pulled back and back and back again, like the layers of skin and sinew and adipose tissue on the bodies of the soldiers. It had been a brutal killing, an unnecessary one, an action done under orders maybe, but with some amount of cruelty and malice. 

It was hard not to see the discarded bodies of slaves in these men, it was hard not to see the corpses Ghilan'nain harvested for parts or that her darkspawn relished devouring. It was hard not to see D’meta’s crossing. The thick fleshy tendrils of blight, great pink boils and bodies with ribs flayed open and bones blackened with the dark, twisted magic of the blight. It corrupted everything it touched, and maybe Rook wasn’t blighted physically, but it had certainly taken its toll on their mind, their spirit, their memory.

They thought of D’Meta’s Crossing. The desperate race to help someone, to save anyone, in the face of what they’d done at the ritual site, what they’d unleashed. They thought of failing. Of condemning the mayor to a terrible fate, because they’d needed someone to blame. Would mercy have been the better stroke at that moment?

Their shoulders ached. They couldn’t look away. 

A heavy hand pulled on their shoulder, yanking Rook away from the doorway, tearing their eyes from the body. They looked up to see who it was and saw the Iron Bull. His head was inclined slightly and he frowned as he looked at them.

“Are you with us again, Rook?” The Bull asked. He seemed to take stock of them, and glanced at the bodies. Rook saw no flicker in his expression. No fear or grief or disgust, the barest sense of acknowledgement was there because he had looked at the bodies and the carnage, and yet… 

Rook looked around for Cyrith. He was some feet away, hunched over a bit. His hand crackled with magic and he was pale, clearly affected by the sight. It wasn’t like Rook was, though. He had no other twisted bodies to remember, save for those nearly burnt to a crisp at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and some near the rifts. This was a first for him, and a terrible one at that. Understanding the gravity of the situation– that people’s lives were on the line, and some tipped over the edge of it willingly, in his name even. Rook inhaled (as deeply as they dared with the smell) and looked back at the Iron Bull. “I’m okay. We should… move the bodies. Put them under sheets, find personal effects or something to identify them…” They looked back into the cabin.

“We… need to send letters to their families.” Cyrith stood a little straighter, trying to take deep breaths and calm himself. He had to be strong– he had to pull himself together, and was recognizing that. Rook felt a deep part of themself cringe– they knew that same feeling all too well. 

“I.. don’t know who most of them are. We could get scouts up here to… identify them?” Rook’s stomach turned. They couldn’t turn their head and look at the bodies again. Cyrith’s shoulders dropped in a defeated, exhausted motion. 

“I know them. I saw most of them at Haven and in the Hinterlands.” Cyrith drew himself up again and took a deep breath, like a great fortress shoring its defenses before a siege. He stepped into the wrecked cabin with a hand covering his mouth to block out the stench. Rook didn’t dare pass the threshold, but The Iron Bull followed Cyrith. Rook moved a few paces out. How many bodies had been left in decay from the final blight? The streets of Minrathous still smelt of death on hot days, mingling with the smell of fish on the docks. It plagued them still, and all the images of all the horrific things they’d seen— the twisted bodies in the Arlathan, the carnage left behind by the Venatori (their torture of the halla), and… Weisshaupt. 

Oh, weisshaupt. They had yet to return, even with the Blight done and plans from Antoine and Evka to rebuild the wardens in a new light, they hadn’t brought themself to it. The only images they had of the place of legend were it wreathed in fire and blight tendrils, overrun and full of dead and dying men and women. So many of their bodies had been ripped open and desiccated. The whole time their heart had pounded with terror– Mila, a little girl, she shouldn’t have been there . 

“Rookie?” A hand rested on their shoulder, but it was hard to tell the difference between that and the thousand-pound weight of the entire world that had been left on their shoulders and had refused to leave even after the war was over. They jumped and found themself eye-to-eye with Sera. She was still muddy and roughed up from the fight, but she looked perplexed. “You’re staring again. Did a tree call you a name or some’in?”

“No, I— I’m fine. Just…” They glanced at the cabin but didn’t let their eyes linger. They could hear the sounds of movement from within, over the rain and thunder, The Iron Bull and Cyrith worked to move the bodies and tend to them. “It’s terrible.”

“It is rubbish. I got an arrow for every one of the arsholes behind this.” Sera agreed. Rook nodded numbly in response. The thoughts of carnage and weisshaupt had fled their mind for the moment, but a persistent, icy ache had still embedded itself across their shoulders and back. 

Soon enough, The Iron Bull and Cyrith came out of the cabin. Cyrith had a haunted look in his eyes, but he held onto a bundle of papers and a thin journal taken from within. 

“I found out more about the bandits,” Cyrith told them. He brought the papers over and spread them out on a dry crate underneath a tree. Rook leaned over to read part of the notes– they saw schematics and drawings, notes on deposits of serpenstone and deepstalker hideouts. Then a note on a nicer page than the others, left behind on purpose perhaps?

It’s not our place to disagree. They’re attempting to set themselves up along the shore, and we have orders. We are the sword, not the hand that wields it. You taught me that. If they’re worthy, let them come with the Mercy’s Crest. The Blades of Hessarrian will listen. You will only get yourself cast out— Or worse.

“So they call themselves the Blades of Hessarian. Ambitious name.” Vivienne observed. “We could craft the amulet, take control, and point them to a noble and better purpose.”

“They slaughtered our men.” Cyrith objected quickly. “How could we trust them?” 

“You would be their leader. They respect that, clearly. They were following orders, not thinking.” Vivienne stood stock straight, not leaning on her staff as many other mages would. Her eyes were cold, and calculating. 

“Just following orders doesn’t make it right– it just means they were too afraid to put a stop to it.” Cyrith’s voice was stiff and stern. “Even if they left this note behind hoping we would take care of it for them it just— it doesn’t excuse murder!”

“I didn't mean to imply that it did. Only that the Inquisition has lost a group of soldiers today. It would only be fair to replace them. And then the Blades of Hessarian could make up for this mistake.” 

“So what, we forgive them?” Cyrith was taken aback. “We know where their hideout is, we should go stop them.”

Rook stood back, watching the argument. They glanced over the notes again. There had already been so much bloodshed, and it wasn’t like they disagreed with Cyrith completely. Changing the leader of the Blades would not erase their wrongdoing… But from where they stood as a group…

“There’s five of us, and how many of them..? Even if it isn’t… right, to take over, if we throw ourselves at them, the blades of hessarian outnumber us. But they clearly feel trapped, too, they don’t want to be doing this.” Rook thought of Solas, and the war against the Titans. They thought of Bellara’s brother, sacrificing himself because he saw no other way out. They thought of the grief Bellara was racked with. 

Cyrith made a frustrated sound. “We aren’t doing it. Come on, let’s go find their base.” Cyrith turned and left the notes that were laid out, picking up his staff and heading towards the path. 

Vivienne shook her head, but followed nonetheless. The Iron Bull and Sera followed after, once Rook started moving. But for a moment they paused, and went to grab the schematic for Mercy’s Crest. Maybe, Cyrith could change his mind. 

***

As it turns out, the only thing worse than being outside in the cold, wet rain and a terrible thunderstorm, was being in a dank, wet cave. There was barely any light to see with; except some torches at the wall. Vivienne cast light at the end of her staff but it only went so far. A certain disquiet had fallen around the group as they traveled, searching the coast for the base of the Blades of Hessarian. No one had brought up Mercy’s Crest again, but it lingered in the back of Rook’s mind. The people who had carried out the orders to kill those soldiers were probably dead. This left a whole lot of others who would just follow orders until someone killed them, too. Too scared to stand up for themselves. They were complicit in the evil of their leader, and Rook decidedly wouldn’t forgive that. But it wasn’t about them. 

Rook watched Cyrith. He was keeping an eye out for trouble as they stepped deeper into the cave. Cyrith had chosen to try and make peace with Solas. To try and turn him from his ways, from his plans as the Dread Wolf. Cyrith wanted Solas to live as a man, not as a scorned God or an ancient rebel taking on more than he could chew (despite how big a mouth Solas had, in the end).  He had learned the ability to make peace from somewhere. To forgive, at least partly. Had he originally forgiven the Blades of Hessarian? Or had he killed them all? Rook wasn’t sure how much their very presence was altering time, but if there was a chance, even a small one, that they had swayed Cyrith’s decision against what it might have been… They needed to fix it. 

“There’s probably deepstalkers in this cave,” Rook noted as they continued on.

“Yeah, we should be careful.” Cyrith agreed, but didn’t seem to catch where Rook was leading with it. 

“We could get supplies to make the crest.” Rook pressed. “I know you don’t think it’s a good idea, but—”

“I don’t. We had this discussion. I have no reason to forgive them, even if they would be useful.” Cyrith’s voice went hard, and he glared over his shoulder.

“None of us are asking for that. But there are five of us and however many more of the Blades. And how many of them do you think there are that want help out of the situation they’re in? They ended up with a bad leader. Some of them should have the strength and courage to rebel, but that could end really badly, couldn’t it?” Rook frowned.

“I’ve seen mercenary groups go against their leaders before. It’s a lot of bloodshed, when you can’t walk away.” The Iron Bull chipped in. “But other inquisition forces might not trust the new guys, if we go take over.”

“But they trust Cyrith. They’ll trust he had a good reason.” Rook responded to the Iron Bull.

“Do you think the Blades trust that their leader has a good reason?” Cyrith snapped a little.

“I don’t,” The Iron Bull answered before Cyrith did. “It’s about control. Bad people get in charge all the time. Anyone who doesn’t think trusts their leaders implicitly. Whoever left that note certainly didn’t trust their leader, didn’t believe in them. But the Inquisition believes in you, don’t they? These mercenaries could too. They could learn a thing or two, right?”

Cyrith was quiet for a while. Perhaps he meant to respond, but the cave was in fact infested with Deepstalkers. They burst from the ground and emerged from their burrows, teeth gnashing. Their sounds were deceptively cute, as their worm-like heads wiped around and their legs kicked out. They were small— smaller than the other deepstalkers that Rook had encountered before, but they had numbers. For a group that wasn’t so well-trained and deadly, the deepstalkers would have been more dangerous. For Cyrith and his inner circle, they were more an inconvenience than anything else. Especially with three spellcasters who could easily take out more than one at a time. 

The thing that proved to be more of a challenge (in combat and in keeping down their lunch) were the giant spiders, which descended from the ceiling. Their legs crackled and their shiny exoskeletons warped the dim light. Mandibles tipped with massive fangs lifted and sprayed thick globules of venom. 

“Giant spiders!?” Rook jumped, magic crackling at their fingertips. “Maker’s mercy, the south is the worst!”

“You don’t get stupid giant creepies in the city either! Hate it out here! Eugh!” Sera agreed with Rook’s reaction, clearly. Her arrows made the worst squelching noise when they impacted with the spider’s bulbous abdomen. 

Rook lost track of how many spiders there were, but eventually they were all dead. Rook leaned against their staff, breathing heavily. 

“Hated that…” Rook groaned.

“Spiders are bad enough when they’re small…” Cyrith grumbled. Then, he sighed. “You’re right. We should take over the Blades of Hessarian. The inquisition is down enough people as it is, and… There could be innocents involved. I won’t forgive them, but… Killing all of them wouldn’t be the right thing to do, either… So… Does anyone else know how to skin a deepstalker?” 

The blank looks all around, except for the Iron Bull, made Cyrith sigh a bit in dismay. 

***

The rain was starting to let up by the time that their small group had built up a new camp. The supplies for the amulet had been gathered, and Cyrith was working with a couple of scouts to put it together. 

“So I am to understand you are from Tevinter?” Vivienne asked. “An elf, so I imagine your status was not ideal, but you are also a mage…”

“That doesn’t earn me as much respect as you’d think,” Rook drawled. They didn’t want to seem too rude or bored, but this was a conversation they’d had multiple times in the past weeks. 

“Mages can be slaves as much as any man. Even if they are not beaten as much, or allowed to learn to read, or whatever else, that doesn’t make it right. Magic is status in Tevinter and it is worth some among the humans. But an elf is an elf. And the altus mages care enough about bloodlines that they’ll still push lower class mages out.”

“And perform blood magic and summon demons with reckless abandon I’m sure…” Vivienne’s lips curled. “They are power hungry with nothing to keep them in check. The circle would curb that.”

“No it would not. It would be another form of oppression and cruelty towards the poor if it were more like here. The altus would find a what out of it— and just like here still. Mages with powerful families can hide from the circle or get privileges others don't have. Lobby for political influence as much as they want, it won’t change the way people think about magic or look at mages in the south. Let alone an elven mage.”

“The circles aren’t perfect but they offer safety and they prevent blood magic from running rampant. Those children we found would have been killed by demons if not for the Templar they were with—“

“Those children,” Rook glared. “Would have been killed if not for the man they were with, and our finding them. The man happened to be a Templar, and happened to be one of the good ones. But how many Templars go mad for power the same way people are terrified a mage will? What of Kirkwall?”

“Kirkwall was—“

“Or the White Spire,” Rook continued. “Do you support the rite of Tranquility? It doesn’t matter. None of your opinions matter to anyone here in the south because you are a mage. You’re dangerous. I’m dangerous. We could snap at any moment, or at least that’s what people think. People are terrified of magic. And they lock up children for the crime of having it, they rip them away from their families to do it. For the chance that they could do something dangerous— as if anyone without magic couldn’t do the unthinkable either. But we don’t punish anyone without magic for a crime they could commit, do we? The circles and the chantry strip everything from the people going into the circle. Unless you already have power and influence. Do you remember your family, Vivienne? Do you still speak with them?”

“I haven’t… seen them since I was taken to the circle. I do not mourn the loss, my place is with the circle,” Vivienne told them.

“But you never even got the chance to have anything else,” Rook established. “Don’t you see that?”

“Would you rather I have been an apostate, then? I do not think my parents would have been so equipped that they could raise a child who can summon ice, fire, or a demon if they were to have a tantrum.” 

“There are ways to give people resources to raise a mage without taking away their child, or making them terrified of it.”

“Yes, why don’t we give children their own private tutors to teach them blood magic? That should go well.” Vivienne sniped.

“There are demons and blood magic in the north,” Rook dictated slowly, holding Vivienne’s stare, “because of power and greed, and true, no one is checking those things. And there is blood magic and demons in the south, because of power and greed.”

“But—“

“There’s no buts about it, my lady,” Rook interrupted. “If you pack a thousand people who are terrified and have nothing left to lose together with men who are terrified and have everything to gain, there will be blood. The only difference here is the south fails to believe that mages are people— so much so that even you see yourself the same way.” 

Rook looked Vivienne up and down and he looked aghast. They saw someone like their father. A centurion general. A powerful man who has honed his body into a weapon, but in so doing, realized the amount of blood he could shed. And had become horrified by that fact. 

“You’re a knight enchanter. You honed your body into a weapon. Yourself into a weapon. And Madame De Fer, I think that is all you know how to be.”

Rook thought of Solas. Fear and pride and grief had twisted him in so many ways. They wondered if Solas had turned towards a more demonic nature the moment he took on a body for Mythal. He’d sacrificed all that he was for her, and maybe that was greedy of the both of them. To take the titan’s blood and form bodies, usurping their nature for power. For Mythal to have asked such a price of Solas and then betray him when the war ended. Then the rebellion. The greed of the Evanuris. The rage of Solas. The fear of the Blight. Fear and love (for his people, for beauty, for life, for Mythal), twisted hand in twisted hand, setting the world on fire. Pride too, of course, for thinking he could have solved all the world’s problems on his own. (Every new note from Fellessan had burned sadness into Rook’s mind)

They thought of Mythal's words when they had called upon her and her memories to beg Solas to stop and atone. “I turned your wisdom into a weapon and it broke you.” No one was holding and pointing Vivienne, but Rook could see it. She had been convinced she wasn’t a person, and all the powers above her (the Templars, the monarchs, the chantry) had taught her that she was a thing to be feared. No different than the Qun Tevinter was so afraid of and that the south was curious about— Saarebas. Dangerous thing. 

It was a stinging realization and Rook worried they’d been too harsh. Yet, pressed on. Maybe a bit greedy. Vivienne pressed her lips shut tight. Rook continued, “The circles in the south should not be a scabbard for all the would be weapons and dangers, because mages are people first, and failing to make that clear already makes them abominations. The circles should not be like the north, either, where mages are taught but the circle is ultimately the stomping ground of the elite and the Templars are a corrupted sham in ignorance of the tenants they uphold in favor of coin. There is corruption everywhere. And for too long in Tevinter and in the south, has it run rampant and poisoned everyone. Demons prey on more than mages but the mages sure are ripe for it when they’re forced to be greedy for the barest of freedoms or so afraid they don’t even know they’re people.”

Vivienne was silent. She seemed stunned. She was a harsh and principled woman, and maybe not used to this kind of pushback. She was used to controlling a room and a conversation, but Rook hadn't left her any recourse, any escapes, instead they’d gone straight on. It might have been a gamble, but it paid off in Vivienne being silent long enough that she didn’t get a chance to respond. Instead, Cyrith came over holding the newly crafted Mercy’s Crest. 

“We’re heading out again, if you’re ready.” Cyrith informed them. He shot Rook a sympathetic look. He must have heard the argument. He had his own disagreements with Vivienne about the circles; especially considering his background as a Dalish mage. Rook stood up. They gave their staff an experimental twirl and nodded. Truthfully, their clothes were soaked through and they ached from fighting. They felt like their skin was somehow still sticky with spiderwebs. The conversation with Vivienne had left a sour taste in their mouth, too. They’d had a decent rapport, but… That had likely shattered a lot of good-will. They then had the comforting realization that… It sucked. It sucked and was hard, but they weren’t in charge. They didn’t have to worry about it, did they? They gave a sigh of relief as they began following Cyrith down the path.

“The scouts said they tracked some of the blades of Hessarian near here! Further up the path.” Cyrith called over the storm, which had picked up again. The waves were thrashing once more, some even seemed taller than the Iron Bull. They avoided getting too close in case the tide became dangerous, but the ground was still mostly dense moss and slippery rock. Rook had to use their staff to stay upright against the force of the wind in some places. What made it worse was that Cyrith was leading them up a hill for part of that time. Rook kept sliding back and tripping, digging their staff in deep between rocks and mud to avoid falling backwards again and again. They tried to cast a bit of ice magic to gain more purchase but the spark died, like a match that wouldn’t strike. Maybe their magic was broken? Maybe something in them had been broken, twisted up because of the Fade and the magic they had come into contact with? Cassandra’s necklace was heavy on their neck and they prayed to the Maker that it didn’t have to do with the despair demon’s lingering magic. 

They crested the hill (half sliding down the other side). Before they could take more than a few steps, the storm was upstaged by a monstrous roar. Shrill and powerful, the guttural call of a dragon was unmistakable. She had a sleek build, perfect for cutting through the waves or a storm. Lightning breath crackled as she reared her head and howled. She was locked in battle. A massive tusked giant was attacking her, swinging its arms roughly (and rather uselessly) against purple and yellow scales. She snapped at the giant, leaving deep scores with her teeth. She flapped her wings and even from a distance, the whole group had to brace themselves against the force of the wind that picked up. She launched herself off the ground, rising higher than the waves and letting out another scream before disappearing into the rain and thick cloud-cover.

“That’s badass!” The Iron bull exclaimed. He held a hand over his face so he could look up into the rain and watch the ascent of the high dragon. Rook wondered what kind of dragon it was— Taash would know. They would have known the instant they heard the call, and would be able to rattle off fact after fact about it. What she ate, how she nested, what kind of breath attack she’d have, how aggressive she would be in a fight…. It was brilliant. Taash… Rook missed them. Their blunt nature, their depth of knowledge on dragons and occasionally smart comments and jokes. The Iron Bull reminded them somewhat of Taash, but it was in a very different way. 

“Incoming!” Sera shouted. “Holy Shite-balls!” 

“What?” Rook’s head snapped to her. Just in time to see a massive stone make an arc in the air– heading right towards them. They raised their arm, meaning to call the fade, to call up a barrier. It wouldn’t be enough– The barrier would shatter and they’d surely be crushed. (What would happen if they died in this time? They thought of the explosion that the venatori’s body had caused when he’d died. Would that happen to them?)

“Duck down!” Sera shoved them hard. They hit the rocky ground with a cry of alarm. Sharp rocks skidded against their skin and fresh scrapes burned from the thick salty air. Sera was quick to get to her feet and knock an arrow. With the dragon gone, the giant had turned its aggression towards the nearest thing– and unfortunately, that was them. 

“Kaffas!” Rook cussed, and struggled to get upright before the giant found another large projectile. They half expected the giant to pluck the now charging Iron Bull right off the ground and hurl him at the party. Luckily (mostly for them– The Iron Bull would be fine), the giant was not that smart. It was also easily distracted by the flashy spells that Vivienne and Cyrith were casting. 

“Sera!” Rook looked around for the archer. “We need to get to high ground!”

“Won’t it notice us?” She fired an arrow and it bounced off the Giant’s thick skin. 

“That’s the plan!” Rook grinned at her and began to run back up the hill– as best they could with how wet it was. The giant was huge, arrow-proof, and pissed off. The Iron Bull was their only front-line fighter at the moment, and reckless didn’t even begin to describe the strategy he was currently employing against the beast. The only thing getting through to the giant to do any damage would be a well placed arrow or spell. And it had one massive target, right in the middle of its face. Sera followed them.

“Better pay off, Rookie!” Sera looked down, aiming an arrow. “Where am I getting him? He’s BIG!”

“The eye!” Rook told her. They raised their staff. This had to work. The spell had to work. Their magic was theirs . It was a part of them, another hand to reach out into the world with, however much it trembled or ached. The spell charged and Sera tried to aim properly. It was hard to do with the giant flailing and thrashing and– It lunged, at a speed that was shocking to Rook. It plucked up the Iron Bull, holding him tight with his arms trapped. The Bull’s great-axe clattered on the ground as the Giant raised the qunari above its head– It was going to smash him! 

Rook had an image all of a sudden: Harding, impaled on Ghilain’ain’s tentacles, her face twisted with pain but her bow still firing its final shot. “My Regards” the bow was named. It was gone with her, destroyed. The arm-brace that Taash had gifted her was gone too. Somehow, Emmrich had recovered the crossbow-bolt that Harding always kept on her, afterwards. There hadn’t even been a body, but how destroyed would it have been? How broken, and bloody? 

If the Iron Bull was crushed against the ground, would they see his body or would it warp itself into Harding’s? Bloody and torn, powerful but so fragile— So easy to lose.

“NO!” The air crackled– It froze .  The rain drops along the path of their spell became tiny needles. Much of it fell to the ground, forcing Vivienne and Cyrith to dodge and watch out for the ice, the hail, now coming down. It connected with the giant. Ice cascaded over its face and blood and clear fluid spurted from its now impaled eye. It dropped the Iron bull and fell to its knees, clutching its face and thrashing. The Iron bull hit the ground but recovered fast and scrambled for his axe. He turned and swung hard. It wasn’t enough force to sever the giant’s head fully, but the axe went deep. It was a death-blow. Rook felt like a live-wire. Every muscle in their body was twitching or trembling from exertion and the release of panic and tension that came once they knew the battle was over. 

“That was… insane!” Sera looked over. She’d definitely fired her arrow, but Rook had lost track of where it went in the fray. Rook could only let out a small sound in response. They took a deep, heaving breath. 

“If we have to fight anything else today, I’m going home.” They said, and regretted it, because… they knew they couldn’t. Still, Sera laughed, and they smiled through the pain and went down the hill again. 

“That was impressive spell-work, Rook, ” Vivienne told them as she sheathed her spectral sword. They were startled by the compliment, given how things had been going earlier…

“Thanks.” Rook couldn’t manage much else as a response. They were still catching their breath.

“You’re helpful in a fight, that’s for sure.” The Iron Bull was brushing off mud and rocks that were stuck to him. 

“Rook gets us out of a lot of pinches. They’ve got some kind of supernatural sense for when someone could be about to die, I swear,” Cyrith laughed.

“It’s called eyes.” Rook jabbed playfully, once they could speak in full sentences again. Cyrith laughed again and shook his head. His mark crackled and it broke his jovial attitude slightly. He seemed to make a mental note that there was likely a rift nearby, but they weren’t equipped to deal with that in the weather. Instead, he guided them back to the path that the scouts had told him about. 

The Blades of Hessarian had a little compound. It had probably been on the coast longer than they had, but they’d fixed it up and put up fortifications. A couple of them stood outside, keeping watch. As if the massive storm wouldn’t keep most mundane threats away. Rook was beginning to think that southerners were crazy– between Harding’s cooking and the antics they’d seen with the Inquisition, the evidence was stacking up. 

“Someone’s come with a challenge..?” One of the gate guards murmured to her companion. 

“Maybe they have a real chance, this time..?” The other responded. They barely regarded the group, just pushed the door open. Cyrith took a deep breath and strode through. Mercy’s crest hung around his neck, the metal flashed in the torchlight. There were a couple small buildings and a stable within the walls of the fortress. Various people stood around, most wearing the blue and tan tunics associated with the blades. Cyrith led the way confidently– The path led directly to their leader. He stood before a display made of bones and rock, twisted together between two large cages, occupied by snarling grey and white mabari. 

The leader of the blades was tall and strikingly blond. He didn’t wear the same blue as everyone else– instead, he wore thick clothes made of dark leather and red fabric. He had his arms crossed and his mouth and nose twisted into something resembling a snarl as Cyrith approached.

“A challenger. You think you can do anything against me? Like so many before you have tried. You will fail.” He sneered. Cyrith glared hard.

“I represent the Inquisition. Your orders ended with my soldiers getting killed. I won’t let this stand.” He gripped his staff so hard, Rook could hear the leather creak. The other blades watched with rapt attention. Some terrified, some hopeful. 

“Try and stop me!” The man let out a battle cry, drawing a handaxe and shoving a lever that allowed the mabari to burst forth from their cages. Cyrith twisted out of the way of the first strike. He spun his staff in the air and slammed it down with brutal force. Magic ruptured through the air. A crescendo of lightning and power. The wave of force shoved the mabari back and the lightning heated the air, turning the rain to steam. It would burn both Cyrith and the leader of the blades. He let out a cry and swung wildly, unable to see. Cyrith yanked his staff up, adjusted his grip so he held it more towards the bottom and swung out wide to smash into the man’s lower ribs. The force was bone-breaking. A staff wasn’t a practical weapon for melee– which was part of why Rook used a blade when it came down to it. Still, if you spend enough hours practicing, and learning to swing the thing around for maneuvers and spells, you can swing one pretty damn hard.

Cyrith’s opponent stumbled and he used that. He held out his hand and let out another blast of power. This time psychic energy that blew up in the face of the enemy. He stumbled and Cyrith kept coming. He cast spells, he used his staff as a bludgeon. The mabari were sent away yelping and howling. Rook felt a bit glad that Cyrith hadn’t been forced to kill them. He didn’t seem to have qualms about killing the soon to be former leader of the Blades of Hessarian. The other end of his staff was more lethal, tipped with a wicked and long blade. 

A killing implement, and Cyrith used it well as he jammed it between likely broken ribs. The blade’s leader gurgled, gasped, and fell back into the mud with a wet noise. Cyrith flicked blood off his staff blade. He was breathing hard. The fade trembled and his mark flickered, reacting to the amount of magic that he’d just exerted. Vivienne inclined her head, likely noticing as well. 

A young man stepped up once Cyrith seemed to have caught his breath. He placed a hand over his heart and bowed a bit.

“Herald of Andraste. We are the Blades of Hessarian…. If you want eyes and ears on the coast, we are now yours.” He informed.

“Some of you took part in killing my men earlier today.” Cyrith stated flatly, and his glare alone could wither a garden faster than any blight.

“We did not wish too– But we had no other choice. Our leader’s word is law… But you will hopefully prove to be a better one, for us, and for the Inquisition.”

“I’m not– I,” Cyrith stepped back. He took a deep breath and Rook watched him square his shoulders. “I don’t lead the Inquisition. It does seem like I am now in charge of you, but…” He sighed. “I lost a lot of men. You all know the coast and know how to fight. When you need work, go find the Inquisition scouts.”

“Of course, sir!” the man responded. “And you and your companions are more than welcome to stay here.”

Rook prayed that Cyrith would take them up on that. They yearned to be dry.

“We will have to…” Cyrith huffed. “It’s been a long day.”

“Right this way, we have shelter from the rain.” 

Was a bath too much to hope for? Probably. Rook still followed. The relief was palpable, and the moment they were in warm, dry clothes, they were going to pass the hell out. They thought that frankly, they deserved it.

Chapter Text

The rest of the trip to the Storm Coast was much smoother. They found more resources and established more of a presence; some inquisition scouts and soldiers were willing to stay in spite of the weather. There was a tenseness over the fallen soldiers between the Inquisition members and the Blades of Hessarian, but Rook believed it would eventually be smoothed over—- Anyone who had actually participated in the killings had been subsequently killed when Cyrith and everyone came through. They were going back to Haven soon. They’d be delivering word of what had happened. The Iron Bull had intel on the Tevinter cultists they’d found. Rook figured it wouldn’t amount to much, not until they encountered a proper group of Ventatori. 

The ones they fought had been a fringe group. Still, Rook was worried. The venatori had clearly come with them from the future— They were certain of this now. Did this mean the magister conducting the spell had possibly survived and ended up in the same time as them? What kind of information could the venatori use against the Inquisition, against Rook? They were terrified to find out. They were also trying their best not to think of it. (As though that strategy had ever worked out with their other problems in life.) They figured their best plan for the moment was to sit tight, do their research, and maybe reach out to Solas again if it was possible. A big “If” as far as Rook was concerned. The inner circle was constantly growing. This meant more people to hide from; more people who could scrutinize their strange actions; who could pick out their lies. They’d still been keeping a distance from The Iron Bull because of it. He might chalk it up to simple racism (probably not); even if they hadn’t said anything that was an issue. The idea of it made them sick to their stomach… But they knew that wasn’t why they kept their distance.  

While they had built up something of a friendship with Cyrith, and had their tense but respectful association with Vivienne, and their avoidance of the Iron Bull (though they tried their best to speak casually); Sera was a whole different situation. They quite enjoyed her company and her jovial attitude. Her opinions on authority weren’t too bad either. She saw the truth of things that others didn’t— even if the words came out as… kind of nonsense. It was kind of fitting since the government, and the social hierarchies that the south had built, were also kind of nonsense… Not that Tevinter was much better in its own hierarchies. She was also just good at pranks. Everyone was fair game. She’d dyed some of Vivienne’s blouses pink when doing the laundry on the road (how, Rook wasn’t certain). She’d swapped Harding’s short bow arrows for her longbow ones. Harding had only discovered when she’d gone out to hunt for deer (and her laughter had surely scared them all away. She hadn’t hit everyone with pranks yet, but Rook could sense them coming. It made travel more fun. 

The days seemed to pass by quicker and the harsh weather as they entered the mountains wasn’t as difficult to cope with. Soon enough, they’d returned to Haven properly. Rook found themself feeling comfortable with the group, almost forgetting the situation they were in the longer someone didn’t bring up any of their half-lies or being from Tevinter. It made them a lot less nervous. They didn’t feel like they had to constantly keep their guard up. Not much was going to slip out.

Haven was not a relaxed place, however, and they were quickly reminded of their circumstances. They were sent to give Cullen a report on his missing soldiers. Harding had her own to give to Leliana, but she had sent words ahead with a bird already. The soldiers were Cullen’s men. He had trained them and sent them with Leliana’s scouts to the coast. Rook… did not want to be the one to deliver the news. Something in them itched as they started walking over to the gathering of tents and fire-pits that made up the soldier’s camps. It had been steadily growing since the declaration of the Inquisition. There were groups of men all around training or chatting. Cullen was standing near a large group of them. He looked regal standing there, his armor catching the sun and the green glints of the breach, a thick fur collar cascading over his shoulders. It clearly marked him as the leader of what was soon to be the Inquisition’s army. He looked proud, but not quite satisfied. He watched his shoulders with a critical eye, marking them out, giving corrections on form, speed, vigor. 

He looked up when Rook approached. They couldn’t bring themself to meet his eyes right away. Instead they approached with their head down for a moment. They gripped the canister of reports a little tighter– it was a mix of papers. Hand-written reports from Cyrith and Harding, and some letters or small belongings that they had recovered from the bodies of the soldiers. Rook looked up when they were just a few feet away from Cullen. He looked sympathetic– He already knew it wasn’t good news, or else Rook’s approach would have been different, or even some of his men would have returned instead. 

They held out the leather canister to Cullen. He looked at it, and then took it from them. It felt a bit like they’d passed him a heavy stone. 

“Come with me.” Cullen gestured. He started walking to a larger tent, built with thick canvas, furs, and heavy wooden posts. His tent, at least for when he was helping in the field. He passed through the front flaps. Rook followed.

Inside was a cot, and a table. A layer of thick tarps and furs covered the ground. Cullen leaned on the table, looking at the still unopened canister. 

“I didn’t want the men to hear it, yet... But I’d rather hear it from someone, than read it in a report.” Cullen knew what was coming. He’d probably had to deliver the news of deaths to the families of his templars a number of times. Rook cringed. 

“We went to the rendezvous point provided by Scout Harding, to meet the soldiers… They… they’d been slaughtered.” The image was seared into their mind. Just as all the carnage they’d seen had been. They thought of D’Meta’s Crossing. They thought of Weisshaupt. They thought of Ghilain’ain killing wardens in waves when they’d defeated her dragons. They thought of Harding falling, probably dead before she disappeared into a swirling pool of sickening Blight. “They were ordered by the former leader of the Blades of Hessarian– some kind of mercenary group.” 

Cullen listened. His fist clenched, leather crumpling and the same with the papers within the canister. “All of them?”

“Yes… We…. We tracked down the leader of the blades who gave the order. He’s dead. So is anyone who participated in killing the soldiers. It… I doubt that means much. The soldiers are dead. I’m sorry.”

Cullen shook his head. “There will be more deaths. There always is… Thank you for delivering the news. I– You’re— You may go.” 

Rook looked at Cullen. He was hitting a hard balance. He cared about his men. He saw them as people. He was still their leader, and would still have to make the hard calls… Or, the hard calls would be made for him. 

“You’re a good commander. For what it’s worth.” Then, they turned and left. They wondered if they could have done it. If they had more people at their disposal, more than a small team or factions able to move and make decisions independent of them… Would they have been able to stomach it? Or would it have been like watching a thousand Scout Lace Hardings be stabbed in the gut, again and again? 

***

Ventus didn’t have very many intact buildings left. Most had some amount of damage, scorched and rendered to rubble by Gaatlok. Some had been rebuilt– In the time since the Qunari left. Other buildings had tell-tale signs of the Qun’s architectural style. They were sturdier than the rest, and housed those who were still getting back on their feet… Or those who never would again. There were many magisters whose minds had been ruined by saar-quamek. A fate every Tevinter child was taught to fear; a reason the Qunari were so reviled even with the war silenced (for now). 

They were in one of those few intact buildings. Made of dark stone, probably an ancient building farther away from the coast. It had been out of the line of fire of the Dreadnaught gaatlok canons. Neve suspected it also had magical shielding from the venatori who had practically made a nest in the place. They were still strong in number– Little pockets of the venatori were all over. They were hard to root out, hard to keep gone.

 Another one of Neve’s suspicions had been proven as well. Not all of the venatori had bent the knee to the evanuris. Some had refused, and avoided being smited for their insolence. They had gone underground, into hiding; they had bided their time. The ones who had been performing the ritual in Arlathan were one such group. Splinter groups should have been predicted, but it made Neve sick to her stomach. The threat just wouldn’t end. 

Neve stopped short of the end of the hall. It was dimly lit, magical lanterns lined the wall but hadn’t been tended to in a while and were beginning to dim. Behind her, Lucanis settled in. Their target was Amulius Erimond— An illegitimate member of the famous venatori family, who took up the last name after his half-siblings were both stopped for good. Lucanis had bristled at the name, and couldn’t wait to get his blade wet with more Erimond blood. Unfortunately, they needed the man alive at least long enough to question him about the time travel. 

Except, the mansion was crawling with venatori and their lackeys. There had already been slaves, unaware that they were ever freed by Dorian’s decree. Some of them were now, at least. More by the time they were done. 

“Two more rights, and I think we will have to find a way through a barrier. Spite can feel the blood magic.” Lucanis murmured to Neve. He adjusted his grip on his daggers, always at the ready. 

“I can take care of that.” Neve gestured with her scepter. She gripped it tighter. She had a lot of experience with venatori barriers at this point, and the blood magic behind them, binding them to strange red lyrium crystals. “The next hallway is clear.” She peaked around the corner again and took a step. A stealth mission was not her cup of tea– there was only so much she could do to muffle her prosthetic leg. She could slink around an alleyway in a busy city, but trying to get through a mansion with stone floors, traps, and guards with their ears open and eyes out…. That was a whole different thing. 

Her difficulty with soft steps might be the death of her one day— Nearly so, as the brick beneath her prosthetic foot shifted. Lucanis reached out in an instant of perhaps supernatural instinct and pulled Neve back just as a fireball launched down the hallway. If Neve had kept walking, and Lucanis wasn’t there, she would be a very melted ice mage. 

“Traps… Probably dozens of them. Mierd.” Lucanis huffed. “It will take hours to disarm them all… Hours we don’t have.”

“Lucanis,” Neve took a breath. Her heart was racing a little— It had been a close call with that fireball. She tried to be like Rook. They would brush it off, make a joke, with an air of awkward confidence but also a certainty, and keep moving. Maybe too quickly, but they could do it. They were better at moving forward, at not getting stuck– At least, moment-to-moment like that. She tried her best to muster up the energy. “I can handle this.” 

She waved a hand, and spun her scepter. Exerting her will on the fade to summon swaths of ice was easy. The air crackled and Lucanis let out a gasp that she could see from his misty breath. The floor was now coated in a thick layer of ice.

“There.” Neve smiled primly. “Shouldn’t have any trouble with those pressure plates, now.” Rook would have made a terrible pun of some kind… Neve couldn’t stomach it, even if it would be a warm reminder of them. She missed them terribly.

“Now we just have to worry about slipping.” Lucanis put a foot on the ice, testing it. 

“Hold on.” Neve pushed off, grabbing Lucanis’s arm and using her magic to rush forward faster than she would otherwise move. They slid across the ice, Neve in perfect control of her magic, able to give them more traction in certain places. They raced through the hall. Neve couldn’t help but laugh when she looked back to see Lucanis’s face, which was awash with shock and maybe fear as well. They came to the end of the ice; it smoothed out back to stone floors just before a set of large double doors. 

“I think this is it,” Lucanis said. 

“Of course it is. It’s always behind a large set of double-doors.” Neve held her scepter at the ready. Lucanis muffled a laugh, and readied his own weapons. 

Neve threw open the set of doors, ready to use her ice magic to make the ground slick and subdue any venatori mages in one swoop, while Lucanis killed anyone non-essential with only a few flicks of his blades, and maybe a bit of help from Spite.

Instead, they opened the door to a bloody scene. Venatori mages who had already been dispatched, laying in slowly forming pools of their own blood. The carpets were stained and there was some splatter across the bookshelves that lined the decorated stone walls. They all had clean, straight cuts across the throat. There was a large desk at the other side of the room, and a lean figure dressed in dark leather and samite was perched on it. He had a knife poised to go through the last remaining mage’s throat– who Neve recognized as their target. 

“Wait!” She couldn’t waste time, using her ice to rush forward and slide. The figure looked up. He was wearing a crow mask, a long white beak extending out from a dark hood. Part of his face was obscured in shadow, but the man smiled, two dark lines of tattoo ink running down his cheek crinkled with his grin. 

“You must be Neve Gallus.” the stranger greeted. 

“You know who I am–?” This man seemed to be a crow, though his armor was an older version and clearly had some personal embellishments that had been added over time. 

“A little bird told me you needed all the help you can get, in order to recover Rook Mercar.” The man pressed the knife a little harder to Amulius Erimond’s throat. The man flinched, but seemed exhausted and terrified– his men had been killed and he had been worn down bit by bit by the duelling skills of a superior fighter. The stranger– the assassin, seemed to think Neve would know what that meant. She didn’t. Except, before she could ask, Lucanis materialized from behind the man, bringing his dagger down– and not connected. Instead, the stranger-assassin threw Erimond to the side and rolled, then came to his feet again in a single graceful moment. 

“Zevran Arainai!” Lucanis snarled. The name sounded familiar– Where had Neve heard it before?

“First Talon!” The stranger– Zevran— purred back. 

“This is a crow contract.” Lucanis didn’t attack again– But his eyes flicked around, like he was still searching for an opportunity. 

“I used to be a crow.” Zevran shrugged. Lucanis growled. 

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now!” Lucanis’s eyes were starting to glow a subtle purple. Zevran laughed a little.

“I am not a mark. Not anymore, at least. I took care of that.” Zevran smiled. He pushed back his hood and shook out his hair. Long and golden-blond, though now streaked with grey and silver. 

“You–” lucanis began to speak, but Neve finally pulled her head from the whirlwind of knives and anger that she had been swept up by, the questions– Where did she know Zevran’s name from, why was he here, what little bird told him that they needed help, and how did Zevran arrive before they did? 

“Enough. What is going on?” Neve stepped forward.

“Ah, a sensible woman. I can get behind that.” Zevran hummed amicably. “I will make this succinct– I was hired by an old friend of mine, Leliana Nightingale, to help recover Rook Mercar however I could. With the help of the Inquisitor– who I’ve worked for previously– and our dear friend Isabela, I found out where you were headed, and thought fit to… get ahead of the game, so to speak.”

“Leliana– Divine Victoria?” Lucanis took a step back, lowering his daggers. 

“That very one. Had I known when we traveled together during the blight, that she would end up in such a position, I would have earned more favors for her to owe me.” Zevran strode across the room and leaned casually against the desk again. He glanced at Erimond, who was laying on the ground, barely conscious. His face shifted for the briefest moment, from collected and casual, perhaps even flirtatious, to something much colder and darker, full of disdain. “At any rate, Rook was instrumental to the rebuilding going on after the most recent Blight, and the evanuris… So, I came to help. To bring them back. They sound like a decent sort.”

“Why wouldn’t the Divine send word to us?” Lucanis was frowning deeply. He didn’t trust this, or Zevran.

“She did, but I travel faster than word. I used Morrigan’s eluvians.”

“Morrigan– You’re friends?” Neve was surprised.

“Ehh, Friends is… a strong word. We traveled together during the Blight. We were both close with the Hero of Fereldan, before she… well,” Zevran looked grief-stricken for a moment. Even nearly thirty years later, “At any rate, it was an important task, so Morrigan saw fit to help me.” 

“Well, you can’t just–” Lucanis started to speak again, but Zevran held up a hand.

“One moment, señior.” Zevran lunged suddenly, jumping and pinning Erimond. He’d been worming along the ground, squirming to try and get away. He grunted, gasping for breath under Zevran’s boot. He bent down, grabbing Erimond by the hair– it was thick and black, but he didn’t have much of it. The top of his head was very bald and the rest of his hair came down like a strange reverse crown. “I’m sure this is humbling for you, Erimond, but we’re having a conversation here.” 

“It can wait.” Neve spoke up. “We’re wasting time here. We came here to get information from Erimond. Let’s get it, and go.”

“You’re not… getting anything from me.” He hissed out through yellow teeth. 

“Oh, I think we have our ways.” Zevran dropped Erimond’s head. The mage grunted when his face hit the stone floor. 

“If you haven’t forgotten your crow training, in all these years.” Lucanis stood now with his daggers sheathed and arms crossed, glowering. 

“I could not forget what I was sold into.” Zevran glared, and flipped Erimond over in a swift movement, punching a dagger down into his shoulder. Erimond screamed, and thrashed, but with the dagger in him that only made it worse. 

Neve cringed, but kept her face cold. It was a venatori magister– He had done worse to others. She wasn’t going to feel sympathy beyond that he was a human being. She needed answers. 

“We’re going to do one question at a time.” Zevran told Erimond. He looked up at Neve to ask the first question– She held all the cards in this situation. 

“To the void with you.” He snarled back.

“Who was the magister in Arlathan forest, completing the time ritual?” Neve asked. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was lying. He glared hard, sneered a  little bit, until Zevran drew his knife out and brought it down again. Zevran’s expression was hard, cold. His eyes were narrowed and brows pressed together. He was good at this, smart about where he placed his blade. Practiced and trained, but Neve could see it. It was never a skill he wanted to have, even if he excelled in it. He was a killer by trade, and once maybe he had reveled in it or found it necessary, if gruesome. It hadn’t been his choice, though. He’d had time to think of what might have been. 

Neve took a deep breath. She didn’t want to carry regret in her heart, thinking she didn’t do everything she could to get Rook back. Everything in her power. 

“Answer the question. I know you know. Some of the people you enslaved and hurt, sent to be sacrificed, pointed the way to you. Who was the magister?” Neve insisted.

“You– You can’t make me–” He began to say, but his words were reduced to whimpers by Zevran. He spent a few moments in pain, before breaking. “Stop! Stop! His name– He’s— Quintis Arvina! He– Please, don’t kill me. Don’t kill me!” He sobbed. Neve grit her teeth.

“How did they research for the ritual? Was there going to be more than one? What was the goal?” 

“They– They broke into the archives. While it was still being cleaned up, after that thief destroyed half of it! They found locked up research by Magister Alexius! And– I think some other apprentices, I don’t know! My job was to find fresh-blood. Magical power, red lyrium and slaves!” 

“Tevinter no longer condones slavery.” Lucanis hissed.

“The elves will always need a master to bend the knee too! The south will be saved, if the Venatori–”

“Shut up.” Zevran snapped. “Next question.”

“What was the goal?” Neve repeated the question.

“Go back, defeat the inquisition and their rattus inquisitor! Before the conclave. So the Elder one could take his place as our god.” Erimond snarled, squirming and then wincing.

“The elder one is dead.” Neve knelt down. “He’ll stay dead. Now, is there a way to undo the ritual? To bring people back to this time?”

“It’s a one-way trip.” Erimond looked up at her, grinning with blood running through his teeth. “It will happen soon. This future will crumble, and the elder one will ascend! If Rook was taken with them, they’re surely dead. You’ve failed.” 

Neve stopped listening, only hearing the blood rushing through her ears. It couldn’t be true– Erimond was clearly taunting her, trying to seed doubt and fear in her. There had to be a way to reverse it. And surely, Rook would have stopped any venatori that came through with them. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t true; they weren’t dead. They couldn’t be dead.

“Neve?” Lucanis put a hand on her shoulder, speaking gently. “Do you have any more questions?”

She leaned into his hand for a moment. Then stood straighter, on her own. “No. Kill him, and let’s get out of here.” 

“No– No you can’t– You!” Erimond pleaded, but Zevran’s knife was quick. If he had other last words, they were unintelligible through the blood Erimond was choking on. Neve turned, ready to leave as quickly as she could. They had new leads to chase, new questions to ask. A clock to race against— if she could just figure out how to turn it back without blood magic.