Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What was it that Solas had called himself all those many months ago? The God of Lies, Treachery, and Rebellion? He’d all but admitted that he was going to betray them months ago, and still Asaaranda had been stupid enough to trust him.

They’d taken the Inquisitor at their word. Asaaranda had believed Sabraen Lavellan when they proudly insisted that Solas could be redeemed. Worse, they had believed Varric when he said he could reason with Solas. It had gotten him killed.

Varric had been dead the entire time and they’d never known. How could they not have known? Did the others realise Varric was dead? How had the others never said anything to them? Was there a funeral, some kind of ceremony for him?

Damn Solas to hell and back, Asaaranda would never forgive him for this. Forget what the damned Inquisitor said, forget what Varric had said; they were both wrong about him. Even if he did care, that made this all so much worse. He cared, but not enough to actually stop and reflect upon what he was doing.

He cared, but not enough to recognise that he was only repeating his mistakes in an effort to fix previous ones. For all that Solas’ friends insisted on his good qualities, that belief had only brought Asaaranda ruin. They’d fallen for his lies, and he had all but pulled the rug out from underneath them.

If the Veil fell because of them, then…

Asaaranda choked back a sob. They couldn’t afford to think like that. Letting themselves get tangled up in regrets, and falling apart in this place would only hand Solas his victory on a silver platter. They had to get out of here.

The veil had to be unstable in places. If they found where it thinned enough, they could possibly step through and breach to the other side.

“Where are you going, Rook?” Varric asked, as Asaaranda pushed themselves to their feet.

“I have to fix this mess. Someone needs to put Solas back in his place,” they declared with a hiss. “He needs to answer for what he’s done.”

Varric clicked his tongue in disapproval. “If you’re hellbent on revenge for me, kid—”

“It’s not just for you!” Asaaranda insisted. “It’s for everyone he’s ever wronged. You, the Inquisitor, Felassan, the Ancient Elves, me. Solas chose this path and I know for damn sure he wouldn’t change now just because we asked nicely.”

They trailed their hand along one of the broken statues forming one of the walls. The visage began to shift and morph into the horrified face of their lover, staring at them with a look of sheer agony. This place was meant to feed into their regrets, make them dwell on them until Asaaranda became the lock on their own prison.

The Fade was not rigid, however. It was malleable and changed itself to fit the expectations of its residents – the Lighthouse itself had proved that. For a place that had been Solas’ for thousands of years, it had happily shifted to become a more comfortable space for the team that inhabited it.

This place could do the same thing, they were sure of it.

Asaaranda hummed gently. The Fade pulsed to match their hum. Their melody and vibrations rippled across the fabric of its energy like a stone dropped into a pool of water. Each ripple revealed new information about the constraints of the prison, where the walls were and what limits they had in this space.

It was much smaller than it seemed.

They stopped looking at the long stretches of grey as open endless hallways, and began to envision them as walls, right where the ripples collided into each other and bounced back. Finally, they had found their weak point.

“Rook?” ‘Varric’ called out again. Asaaranda ignored him, gritting their teeth and hissing under their breath, “Damn it, where’s… there!”

At last, they had found an intersection where the barriers felt weakened, probably thanks to whatever Solas was doing with the veil causing it to tear. With barely any pressure, Rook could feel the way walls tensed and threatened to snap.

Varric approached one more time and spoke again, “Rook, if you do this—”

“I’m going to stop the damn Dread Wolf, Varric,” Asaaranda interjected. “At any cost.”

In an instant, they pushed their hand through the invisible wall and breached to the other side. The images of regret began to peel away, as Rook forced their way out, leaving the image of Varric behind.

This part of the Fade had colour in it. Maker, they had almost forgotten what colour looked like. It was the one distinguishing feature that made it plain to Asaaranda that they were no longer in the Prison of Regret and had finally freed themselves of it.

Vibrant greens of the fade itself, dusty browns and deep oranges of cliff faces, smatterings of pale blue and glimmering gold flora made themselves known to Rook like it was the first time they had ever experienced colour.

After an absence of such simple beauty, they could not help but feel like a void had been filled by this place. The temptation to fall behind and stay to admire it clawed at them like a beast. Yet, Asaaranda steeled their resolve and continued on.

The Fade often did not carry consistent landmarks. Each new step forward felt disorienting, like they had made no progress at all. Just as their renewed hope began to falter, over the horizon they spotted an oddity that made them pause.

A woman made of light, wearing only what appeared like a hat shaped to be like the base of a triangle, with no other discernible features. The world around her seemed to hold its breath in very presence, with an almost reverent stillness. Was that… a Chantry Sister? How could there possibly be a chantry sister here? Asaaranda scanned over the woman methodically. It had to be a spirit. Faith or Compassion, maybe.

If it wanted to help, then who was Rook to look a gift horse in the mouth?

Determined, Asaaranda stepped forward and greeted her with a warm yet cautious, “Hello?”

The spirit-woman turned her whole body to face them, nodded in a bow-like greeting, then spoke, “You… are not a demon.”

Taken slightly aback, they asked, “Did you think I was a demon?”

She paused, contemplatively, then declared, “I hoped you would not be. Fear lingers in this place, growing fat and becoming nightmare from our worst thoughts. I have scarcely evaded them; thus it pleases me you are not one of them.”

Asaaranda nodded. “Right. Well. Glad to be of service.”

The air grew thick with anticipation, a sudden jolt of energy which brought Asaaranda back on edge. It was like an entire crowd had stopped to stare directly at them with predatory hunger and desire.

“You are not supposed to be here,” the woman remarked, albeit not unkindly. “Are you?”

Each pause, each breath brought new renewed tension to the world around Rook and this spirit. Sensations and thoughts of many dozens of beings unlike them both began to make themselves known, like leaks trickling in before a flood.

Something was becoming increasingly wrong.

“Definitely not,” Asaaranda confirmed, breathily like they were suffocating. “In fact, I’d really like to get out of here. Do you know the way?”

A pulse. A twitch. A pounding of drums. Something was here and it liked what it saw. A fresh, ripe specimen for it to play with. “What joy Rook would provide to it!” it seemed to purr in delight.

Their deepest horrors, their most vicious hurts, all of them dripped like liquor upon the tongue of this beast fed by fear. With each passing second, it pressed against the boundaries of their psyche and found new treasures to rejoice in.

The destruction of Minrathous, the fall of Weisshaupt, their regrets, their failures and attempts to stop the Dread Wolf resulting in their allies taking the fall for their actions.

Varric Tethras. Neve Gallus. Lace Harding. All of them dead at their hand.

What a delightful little treat this was.

“Asaaranda Mercar…” It luxuriated, testing the weight of their name in its mouth. Each syllable soaked in a sweet cocktail of despair, tasting wholly of their failure and fear. Yet within that name, there was another that bore even more weight. Stewed in expectation, crushed under the reality of leadership, it knew it had a veritable feast before it. With a finality of sadistic joy, it declared “I’ve found a Rook!”

The words echoed throughout the Fade, and suddenly the earth shook until bent and cracked with a resounding, deafening boom. The spirit-woman looked over her shoulder, then took Asaaranda by the hand. “Come. We must hurry. There isn’t much time,” she insisted, propelling them forward and into a sprint. “If you remain trapped, we will all be doomed.”

As she spoke, dozens upon dozens of wolf-like demons suddenly surged behind them in a wave-like army. A quick panicked glimpse revealed the hundreds of eyes and thousands of gnashing teeth, appearing more like a singular mass entity than a pack.

Yet, they were undeniably wolves. Appearing as a mockery of Fen’Harel’s visage and iconography produced solely to torment and distract, they clambered forward in hot pursuit. Predators seeking out their prey, what a joy they would have devouring this little dragon.

“Of course, it had to be fucking wolves,” Rook groaned, spitting out a curse. “Vishante kaffas!”

The repetitive beating sound of the entire stampede echoed like the crack of thunderstorms, the snarls and growls and gnashing of teeth thundered like a murderous choir. Asaaranda kept on desperately climbing up the hill, focusing solely on survival.

They had to survive. They had to. They—

“Hello? Is anybody out there? Can you hear me?” a familiar voice called out from a distance away. Their heart soared in their chest, hope replacing despair in an instant. It had to be Inquisitor Lavellan. There was no mistaking it.

“I’m here!” Asaaranda called out. “Sabraen!”

The spirit-woman stepped in front of them as they reached the apex of the hill and directed their attention towards the swirling vortex of green and light. “This rift will take you out of the Fade. Now go. You must live,” the spirit-woman proclaimed, placing a hand gently on Asaaranda’s shoulder. Rook floundered, protesting with, “Wait, but Sabraen—”

“I will take care of them. Now go!” she insisted firmly, all but shoving them through with a surprising amount of force that took them off guard.

They tumbled through the rift and fell onto their knees with groan. The ground beneath them was closer to rubble than gravel, and the impact from their fall kicked up dust into their eyes, making them squint.

“Look! By the rift, someone’s there!” an unfamiliar voice called. The sound of clanking armour came rushing downhill all at once, then two shadows loomed over Asaaranda’s place on the ground.

As they wiped the dust from their eyes, all but prepared to begin asking questions, Asaaranda suddenly froze as they finally appraised the two men before them. They were well-armed, heavily armoured, and yet the thing that could Rook’s eye was the heraldry that marked them.

They weren’t allies, otherwise they would have recognised Asaaranda in an instant.

These weren’t Venatori or Antaam. These men wore the crest of the Southern Chantry. Hadn’t they accounted for spatial travel after escaping the prison of regret? Fuck, how far South had they come? Tearstone Island was off the coast of Rivain, and after the Antaam invasion, Southern Chantry presence had all but completely eroded.

Was this Antiva? Nevarra? Were they somewhere in the Free Marches?

Each new possibility made them spiral further into frustration and confusion, which gave the confused soldiers ample time to get a better look at them in turn.

“A Qunari Mage!” the soldier gawked in realisation. With a flash of metal, he had surged forward and placed the blade against Asaaranda’s throat. “Don’t you dare move another muscle, or you’re dead, oxman.”

Asaaranda’s racing thoughts came to screeching halt. Shit.

“Gentlemen, please. There’s no need for this,” they reasoned, falling back on years of experience defusing tense situations back home as any actual thought evaded them. “I want answers as much as you do. We don’t have to have this end in bloodshed.”

“The only one you’ll be answering to is Seeker Pentaghast, Qunari,” the other soldier snarled. “You’re going to pay for what you did.”

…what?

Before they could question what the hell he’d meant by that, Asaaranda was grappled by their shoulders and forced onto their feet. “Move it!”

The rift began to sputter and crackle again with renewed energy, causing the two men to release their grips on Asaaranda’s shoulders in anticipation of what would come out the other side.

Lo and behold, Sabraen Lavellan fell through the rift and passed out on the ground below with an unceremonious thud. “We’ve got another!”

Additional soldiers rushed downhill towards Sabraen and retrieved their unconscious form from the gravel floor below.

“Seize them both!” a woman with an unusual accent ordered sharply. “I will take them to the dungeons for questioning.” Rook snapped their head uphill to identify the source of the voice. Their eyes fell upon a human woman of above average height, with choppy short black hair, a prominent facial scar, adorned in heavy armour bearing a large seal across the breastplate.

Despite not recognising the seal, it was immediately apparent to Asaaranda who this woman was. After all, Varric had described Cassandra Pentaghast on several occasions in his accounts of the Inquisition.

Seeing her now, she was no less epic or intimidating than he had described. She held herself with an unwieldy strength yet a ferocious determination that rolled off of her in waves. The soldiers accepted her orders without hesitation, falling into line in a way that screamed praise to Cassandra’s natural authority.

Cassandra galumphed downhill and stood before Asaaranda with a glower. Despite only coming up to Asaaranda’s collarbone, she seemed to tower over them as she grabbed them by the collar with a hiss, “If you do not cooperate, I will not hesitate to take drastic action.”

Pulse racing in their ears, Rook swallowed harshly and insisted, “I will cooperate, Seeker, I just—”

But Cassandra had stopped listening, as she continued to bark out orders, all while shoving them in line with her own path. Asaaranda chanced a glimpse over their shoulder at the Inquisitor, feeling their dread settle into their gut.

In lieu of Sabraen’s usual prosthetic, there was a distinctive pulse of green light on their left hand that glowed brilliantly. That… that couldn’t be the mark, could it?

“What year is it?” Asaaranda blurted out, with increasing horror in the pit of their stomach.

Cassandra shot them a confused glare. “What?”

“Please. What year is it?” they insisted.

“9:41 Dragon,” Cassandra conceded with a grunt.

All of their worst fears had been confirmed in that moment. It was too improbable to ignore or reason away, but if it were true then all was lost... This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. This was another trick of the fade.

Rook forced themselves to look upwards towards the sky to behold it, praying that with enough sheer force of will that they could break this illusion and find another path out.

Yet nothing changed. There was no pulsing rhythm, no melody of magic in response to their desperation. The Fade may have been malleable, but this was not the Fade. This could only be Thedas, eleven years earlier than it should have been.

Asaaranda had been a teenager when the Breach had opened and poured demons into the world. They’d been old enough to know just how terrifying it all was, but young enough and far away enough to not be able to do anything about it.

Back then, they would have given anything to help the Inquisition. Now, being here was a sign that something had gone horribly wrong and they would give anything to be anywhere else.

Temporarily defeated and feeling remarkably exhausted, Rook slumped in Cassandra’s grip. What could they possibly do from here? They had no contacts, no resources, no allies… If they risked running, they almost certainly would be killed. They had no idea what larger consequences their death would have. Asaaranda couldn’t be sure this was even real.

Until they knew for sure what was happening and could figure a way out, they couldn’t bring any further suspicion onto themselves.

The trudge through the snowy mountains went by in a blur of white snow, green light, and orange flames. Distance and time became meaningless, as all too soon Asaaranda found themselves behind bars in a dark cobblestoned prison cell, clapped in iron handcuffs.

Cassandra closed the iron door with a slam and a low warning, “Stay there. I cannot guarantee your safety if you go.”

Rook nodded, staying silent and compliant. They watched out of the corner of their eye as Cassandra retreated and left the prison entirely, leaving them alone in a room full of Chantry soldiers somewhere in Southern Thedas, eleven years in the past.

“Vishante kaffas,” Rook hissed, defeatedly.

Maker help them all, how could this possibly get worse?

Chapter Text

Naturally, it did get worse.

They sat in the freezing cold jail cell for an unknowable amount of time. Screams echoed over the valley, the deniable roars of demons and escaped spirits as the Fade undoubtedly rushed out from behind the Veil.

Sitting with their discomfort grew increasingly painful by the second, until finally Rook couldn’t take it anymore. “Hey, is Seeker Pentaghast coming back or am I just going to sit in here until I freeze my ass off?” they called out, banging on the bars to get the guards’ attention.

“Shut your mouth, Qunari!” the guardsman barked in reply. “Or you’ll have worse to deal with than frostbite.”

Asaaranda sighed, sitting down on the ground again. If Cassandra was going to just leave them to rot in here, perhaps running would be preferable. Maybe then they could try to find an Eluvian and get back to the Lighthouse.

Just as they were contemplating the risks of trying to break out, the entrance to the prison swung open unceremoniously as Seeker Pentaghast returned, looking slightly more dishevelled than she was previously.

Behind her, dressed in what looked like various hastily acquired rags, was none other than the one person Rook had to blame for ending up in this situation. That same smug expression, violet eyes, bald head, pointed ears, and unwavering air of unearned pride about him.

Him. Solas. Fen’Harel. The fucking Dread Wolf stood just a few feet away from them and there was nothing they could do about it.

“Thank you for allowing me to look over the prisoner, Seeker,” he said simply, stepping towards Rook with a nod of acknowledgement. Instinctively, Asaaranda recoiled from his approach, though they swallowed back the growing snarl in their throat.

Solas knelt at Rook’s feet and held out his palm. “Would you mind giving me your hand?”

Their gaze flickered over to Cassandra, who had positioned herself behind Solas with her arms crossed. She nodded expectantly, scowling in suspicion.

Reluctantly, Asaaranda placed their cuffed hands in Solas’ own.

Bright, white light engulfed them from head to toe, causing a pins-and-needles like sensation to rush across their skin. Rook shuddered, wrenching their hand out of his grasp with a sharp recoil.

“Well?” Cassandra demanded with a huff. Solas shook his head. “I can’t detect any adverse or unusual magic. Nothing that seems to indicate that they played a role in the Breach’s creation.”

This answer seemed to displease Cassandra, who growled, “How is that possible? They came out of the rift; they were one of only two survivors—”

“I understand that, Seeker,” Solas interjected, gentle yet firm. “However, you asked for my opinion and I have given it. I do not think they are guilty.”

“Then how would you explain their survival?” Cassandra barked.

“Have you tried asking them?” he suggested with a cocked eyebrow. To Solas’ credit, he did not wither nor diminish under Cassandra’s venomous glare, or her disgusted noise in response to his glibness.

Yet Rook themselves began to wilt as the Seeker’s attention turned to them. “You may go, Solas. There will undoubtedly be a veritable army of demons in the valley, and our soldiers will need all the help they can get.”

“Very well. Good luck, Seeker,” he conceded with a bow. Asaaranda watched with unblinking eyes as Solas retreated, scuttling away like a kicked housedog rather than the predatory wolf they knew he was.

Fucker…

Cassandra turned her attention to Asaaranda with an eerie sense of calm, yet with an unerring bubbling rage under the surface. “You. Start speaking.”

Asaaranda raised their head with a heavy sigh to meet the Seeker’s glare. “Do you wanna tell me what that routine with the mage was first?”

Cassandra scowled. “You are in no position to make demands.”

“Your friend said that he did not think I was involved,” Rook pointed out. “You disagree?”

She huffed, casting another stern murderous glare in their direction. “You have not given me a reason to believe in his assessment. Currently the only thing proving your innocence is the word of one elven apostate, yet circumstance places you at the Breach.”

Ah. Right. They had to diffuse the situation before it got out of hand.

“I did not create the Breach, Seeker,” Asaaranda confirmed, trying deliberately keep their tone calm and even. “I had no role to play in the destruction of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

Cassandra hissed, grasping them by the collar, “You were seen coming out of the rift, just before the elven woman with the marked hand. We have several eyewitness accounts. If you were not part of this, what were you doing there and why did only you survive?”

Each word could implicate them horribly. Each new piece of information could utterly change the course of history. It wasn’t worth the risk to be truthful about what they were doing here – at least not until they had a concrete plan to stop Solas – yet lying and getting called out could also prove disastrous.

Half-truths were going to be a close ally here, they decided. Asaaranda steeled their resolve and spoke, “The Fade obscures much… All I can really say is that there was a woman. Just as I reached her, we were being chased by something, but she guided me to safety. She wanted me to live. I fell through the rift and that is when your soldiers found me.”

Cassandra grunted, releasing Asaaranda and stepping back. “A woman? What woman?”

“She didn’t exactly give me her name while we fled for our lives,” Rook shrugged, with an apologetic look across their face. “If there was more I could say to bring you the answers you need, then I would. What I can offer instead is my assistance.”

Disbelief and suspicion painted Cassandra’s face immediately, a tight scowl reappearing across her expression. “Your assistance?”

With this renewed determination and control over the situation, Asaaranda found themselves growing more confident. “You mentioned an army of demons to your elven friend back there, and from what little I saw on my journey over here – the situation is bad. I want to help,” Rook explained.

“…why would you want to help?” she demanded with unwavering suspicion.

“Aside from the fact that the Breach looks like it may destroy the world?” Asaaranda pointed out, then continued, “There are questions I need answered. I cannot go home until I know how I came through the Breach and what brought me here. Staying to help seems the best way to find the answers I seek.”

Half-truths, more half-truths, Maker, how many more half-truths could Rook possibly twist into a believable-enough narrative before they had to start actually lying? They could only feign ignorance for so long before it became suspicious.

If Cassandra got curious about Asaaranda’s actual background, how much could they actually say about themselves without putting themselves and their family at risk? Even now, even in a world they weren’t entirely sure was real, they had too much to lose.

Still, Asaaranda kept their expression deliberately neutral and their movements even. Any abrupt changes might invite more suspicion and questions. They had to remain calm.

After an agonising few seconds, Cassandra sighed and barked out a sharp order to the guards. “Unlock their cuffs and escort them to assist others in the valley. If they try to run, kill them.”

The guardsman dutifully stepped forward and released Asaaranda from their restraints after retrieving keys from his pockets . “Thank you, Seeker,” they murmured gratefully.

“Do not make me regret this,” Cassandra warned as she left the prison for the final time.

Tension immediately fell from Asaaranda’s shoulders as the Seeker made herself scarce, feeling like a gut punch of anxiety had been released from them all at once. How in the hell were they supposed to keep this up?

The guardsmen shoved them forward roughly, as they slowed from the spiralling thoughts rushing through their mind. “Keep moving. You’re not out of the woods yet, Qunari.”

Right. Of course not.

**

The journey through the mountains was naturally fraught with demons and spirits of all different kinds. Most of them were despair demons, with a few wraiths and rage demons in-between, so nothing that Rook was unfamiliar with nor was unequipped to handle.

Perhaps their time with Emmrich and helping the Mourn Watch in the Necropolis was to thank. Asaaranda had all but lost count of the amount of spirits they’d faced since they began pursuing Solas almost two years ago.

Shit, had it really been that long? They’d almost forgotten. It wasn’t like they expected that tracking down a god would be easy, or quick. Yet, recalling the actual amount of time was pretty disconcerting.

Thinking about time in general was giving them a headache. Had this whole time travel business technically made them ten years older or younger? Would that matter once they went back to their own time, or would their years not carry over if they went back to the exact moment Solas trapped them?

Ugh. Too much to contemplate.

Asaaranda shook their head to free themselves of the implications, and continued up the path the soldiers directed them. At the apex of the hill, they heard familiar sounds of shouting and screeching demons. “How many more of these damn things could there possibly be, Chuckles?” a voice called out.

No… It couldn’t be.

Asaaranda’s heart began to race uncontrollably. They stumbled in their stride, stomach twisting and turning with an undeniable sense of heartache. Rook hadn’t even considered the possibility; how could they be so stupid?

If this really was 9:41 Dragon, and this really was the Breach, of course he would be here. It was only natural. How many damned times had Varric told them this part of the story? He’d been fresh off of his interrogation by Cassandra Pentaghast, brought to the Conclave to speak his case before the Divine, when the Breach was created and killed everyone inside the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Rook knew that and yet they couldn’t bring themselves to believe it.

This had to be proof this wasn’t real. What version of reality could ever possibly be so cruel as to bring Varric Tethras back just hours after Asaaranda learned that he had been murdered by Solas?

Each step brought them closer to confronting it. Each moment brought them closer to the possibility of falling apart in a complete and utter heap. This had to be an elaborate extension of the Fade Prison, maybe they’d never even left at all, maybe…

And yet as they finally reached the crest of the hill, Rook knew they could no longer deny the truth.

Varric Tethras stood amongst the crowd, unmistakably real and alive. Rook’s eyes fell onto Varric with a sense of horror, relief, and despair. They had found out just moments before that he was dead and now… here he was, with not an ounce of grey in his hair and no beard, looking nothing like how they remembered and yet… It was undeniably him.

A few things immediately caught Rook’s eye about Varric. His hair was pulled back into a low half-up half-down style, which they hadn’t recalled him doing when they knew him – something about it being easier just to leave it down. The colour of his hair was obviously different, his locks taking on a blondish ginger colour rather than the dark steel grey he’d had when they met, but they attributed that to ten years of aging and stress.

Most importantly, perhaps even more important than the iconic crossbow he wielded with an exceptional skill and grace, was the gold necklace he wore that sat comfortably in the centre of his chest.

It was a simple piece – just a large golden loop hanging off a golden chain – yet it was something Asaaranda knew Varric wore every damned day. He’d never mentioned if it had any significance, if it was a gift from someone like Pandora Hawke, or even if it was an heirloom from his family who he spoke even less about than himself.

Yet Asaaranda knew it was something that made Varric who he was, and that simple confirmation was enough to break them.

Fuck.

Their heart threatened to leap out of their chest and sobs bubbled in their gut like corrosive acid. Floods of tears welled in their eyes which they forced themselves to wipe away hurriedly.

Grief could come later, in private. Mourning was a luxury they could only afford to indulge in alone, no matter how nonsensical it was to mourn a man who was alive. Rook knew they had to keep their composure, or else risk losing their only chance to stop Solas.

It had been that resolve that allowed them to escape in the first place, hadn’t it?

“There will undoubtedly be many more demons to come, Master Tethras, until Cassandra’s marked prisoner arrives. If I’m correct, only they will be able to seal the rifts we are now dealing with,” Solas remarked simply.

Varric gave a long-winded groan, “Right. Of course. There can never be a simple end to these things.”

“With any luck, they’ll be here soon,” Solas replied with the slightest hint of amusement.

Asaaranda and their guard escorts finally made their approach, catching both Solas’ and Varric’s attentions. “Ah, here we go. You don’t happen to be the one with the glowing hand, do you?” Varric asked, half-jokingly and half-sincerely.

Rook plastered on a fake amused expression and replied, whilst swallowing the lump that had formed in their throat, “Sadly not. You’re thinking of the other one who came out of the rift.”

They deliberately avoided making eye-contact with or even acknowledging Solas’ presence, not entirely trusting themselves not to do something incredibly irresponsible and self-indulgent like thwacking the damned bastard onto his ass with their staff.

As delicious as the thought itself was, it wouldn’t serve them. At least, not yet.

Varric sighed dramatically, recapturing Rook’s attention in a flash with his typical roguish charm and disposition. “Of course. At this rate, there’ll be no end to the damn things.”

Asaaranda shrugged, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Despite calling out the disappointment, Rook themselves felt like they were utterly buzzing from just this few seconds of discussion. What a remarkably mundane interaction this had been, with the formerly dead man who changed their life.

Embarrassment curled up in Asaaranda’s stomach. For them to get so overwhelmed by a conversation without any real substance felt awful and unearned. How many things had they longed for Varric to hear back in the Fade Prison that eluded them back then came swinging at full force now? It was unfair.

This version of Varric didn’t even know Asaaranda existed, not really. A thirty-second conversation at the apparent end of the world didn’t count for jack shit. It wasn’t indicative of the rapport they’d built with their own Varric.

It was just… empty.

“I am pleased to see that Seeker Pentaghast agreed with my assessment of you,” Solas interjected, forcing his way through Asaaranda’s forming melancholy to remind them of their vengeful irritation.

Bastard.

Asaaranda clicked their tongue with a shrug, “I don’t think she particularly agreed with you. Just that she was in no position to turn down help when I offered it.”

Surprise flickered across Solas’ remarkably punchable face. “I see. You would willingly stay to help out, despite the suspicion you are currently placed under?”

“Of course,” Asaaranda shrugged again, trying to indicate that polite conversation was the last thing they wanted to engage in. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“A remarkably altruistic view,” Solas remarked, sounding almost… impressed? “And admittedly, a practical one. I can imagine that may be the thing to save your life from the wrath of the Chantry.”

Asaaranda gritted their teeth, shoved down the vitriolic remark that they wanted to spit in his direction, and instead settled for a simple, “An enjoyable side benefit of helping the world not fall apart, I think.”

Infuriatingly, this seemed to amuse Solas as he chuckled warmly, “Indeed.”

Fortunately, they were spared the torturous endeavour of having to exchange any further niceties with Solas as the sky began to sputter and flash again with more green light and waves of lesser shades began to clamber out into the physical world.

Asaaranda sighed and allowed themselves to sink back into the routine of killing demons. It was surprisingly therapeutic and strangely comforting, just to let their magic go where it would and slice through these malevolent spirits like butter. Maker, what a world they lived in where demons were preferable to a conversation with the Dread Wolf.

All too soon, Sabraen Lavellan and Cassandra Pentaghast came clambering over the hill themselves. As each demon fell, Rook slowly rebuilt their walls and put up their guard all over again. There was still much more to go before they could relax and figure out a plan other than simple survival.

When the final demon fell, Solas quickly rushed to Sabraen’s side and barked desperately, “Quickly! Before more come through!”

He grasped their marked hand in his own and raised it up to meet the swirling centre of the rift until a connection of green lightning formed between them. The pulses surged and sputtered until finally the rift closed with a fantastic boom that caused Sabraen to stumble.

Asaaranda watched as the Dalish elf looked down at their palm in awe and a healthy amount of fear, then back up at Solas. With a tremor to their tone of voice, they implored, “…what did you do?”

Solas plastered an expression of humility on his face and replied, “I did nothing. The credit is yours.”

Biting back a groan, Rook watched as Sabraen lit up with awe. “You mean this,” they surmised, glancing back at the mark in their palm.

“Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky, also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorised the mark might be able to close whatever rifts have opened in the Breach’s wake, and it seems I was correct,” Solas explained dutifully, sounding closer to a poet reading a sonnet than a man whose life was in danger.

This almost romantic framing seemed to capture Cassandra’s attention immediately, as she added with a hopeful declaration, “…meaning it could also close the Breach itself.”

Solas got a whimsical and infuriatingly mischievous glint in his eye as he affirmed, “Possibly.” In a display of what Asaaranda could only ascribe as ‘deliberate attempts to appear humble for his obvious manipulation,’ Solas brought his feet together, bowed his head slightly and gently cupped his hands in a clear gesture of reverence, then spoke with words that made Rook want to gag..

“It appears you hold the key to our salvation,” Solas declared with the faintest hint of a smirk.

Fucker.

Chapter Text

On their approach to the Breach, Sabraen, Solas, Varric, Cassandra, and Rook ended up meeting with a few others from the Inquisition’s ranks. Namely, Sister Leliana and Cullen Rutherford. They were each suitably inundated with demons, which they all helped to dispense.

All of the various shades and whatnot were expected, Rook felt prepared to see that. The results of the destruction of the Temple of Sacred Ashes was an entirely different situation. It wasn’t just dust and rubble like they’d often imagined when Varric had told them the story in the past.

There were people everywhere. Dozens of them, or what remained of them, scattered across the ground into dust or cremated into statue-like tableaus of horror. The only comfort Asaaranda could find was that these people would have died instantly, so quick that it may well have been painless.

It would have been over before they knew it had happened. Was that preferable to being aware of your own inevitable demise? If at the end of the world, Rook had the choice just to fall asleep or watch it all burn, they’re not entirely sure which they’d choose.

On the one hand, fighting against it meant that there was a chance that the end wasn’t inevitable. Every ounce of effort, every second spent resisting could amount to saving something. Even if they could not save themselves, there always had to be merit in saving others, if they could.

And yet. Was it crueller to deny those people the dignity of a peaceful death? Was it crueller to deny themselves that dignity? Could it even be called dignity, or was it cowardice? To roll onto their back like a dying dog, contenting themselves with the consolation prize of peace at the end, was that what Asaaranda Mercar wanted?

Was it better to go out fighting, even it were useless, or grant themselves one final reprieve?

“Kid!” Varric called out again, breaking Rook out of their fugue state of thinking. They’d been so consumed by thought they hadn’t even noticed he was speaking to them. Fuck. “You alright?” he asked, genuine concern lacing his tone.

“I’m fine,” they lied determinedly. “Just not used to all of these demons.”

The ghosts of their own Varric Tethras stared back at them; all the many things he used to say to them echoing through their mind like a choir in a chantry.

Conjuring a cheery expression, Varric patted them on the back reassuringly, “With any luck you won’t have to get used to them. Whaddya say, Elfroot?”

Sabraen blinked, taken slightly off guard, “‘Elfroot?’ Is that a nickname?”

“Well, so far, you’ve stopped to pick every bundle of Elfroot we’ve encountered across the mountainside,” Varric pointed out with a shrug. “Seems fitting for now, doesn’t it?”

“You can just call me my name,” they chuckled warmly.

Varric scoffed playfully. “If you want to be boring, fine.”

“Speaking of names,” Solas interjected. “I don’t believe we’ve heard our Qunari friend’s.”

Asaaranda cursed the Dread Wolf with an eternal suffering filled with hammers and sadness and sour milk in their mind. Damn him, damn him, damn him. They’d been hoping this question would go forgotten until they could find a place to retreat to and come up with an actual alibi or false identity that wouldn’t reveal too much sensitive information.

Their real name was off the table, but they couldn’t conjure a good enough lie. Instead, they threw caution to the wind and supposed that a simple nickname couldn’t alter history that badly.

“I’m Rook,” Asaaranda replied simply. “Though, I’m happy to steal Elfroot as a nickname from Sabraen if they’re not so keen on it.”  A playful undercut to hide the anxiety forming in their stomach.

“Nah, you don’t strike me as an Elfroot,” Varric insisted, equally playful. “I’ll see if I can conjure something else for a nickname, but for now Rook will just have to do. Besides, I think it suits you.”

Needles pierced their heart all at once, stabbing and throbbing and awful, damn you Varric. They had already been on the brink of falling apart already, this was unfair.

“Lovely to meet you, Rook,” Solas remarked plainly. Asaaranda returned the gesture with a forced smile, “Same to you, Solas.”

While his back was turned, they mentally envisioned throwing him off the nearest cliff and stabbing him with their staff blade in midair while flying. This horribly indulgent and violent thought satiated their frustration temporarily, allowing them to attempt deal with their panic and rising grief.

Their internal frustrations were apparently noticed as Sabraen stepped back, subtly placed a hand on Asaaranda’s shoulder, and whispered, “Hey. If you need a second, you can just hang back and I’ll get Cassandra off your case?”

Asaaranda chuckled weakly, trying to not to appear desperately sad. “Thanks, Sabraen. I’ll be fine. Let’s just get to the Breach.”

With any luck, sealing the Breach would be no more a difficult endeavour than any of the other rifts they’d encountered thus far.

**

A Pride Demon. Of course, it had to be a damned Pride Demon.

“Vishante kaffas, I hate those fucking things,” Rook groaned in frustration, rubbing at the back of their neck with a groan. They’d managed to jar their neck while dodging the damned thing’s lightning bolts. The battle had been fraught, and it had ended with Sabraen passing out after partially closing the Breach.

None of them walked out particularly unscathed. A sprained neck for Rook, a twisted ankle for Cassandra, slight burns on Varric, and even Solas had been subject to some quite severe looking bruises after he’d been caught up in the demon’s electrified whip.

It should have felt like karma, but frankly Asaaranda was too tired to even contemplate enjoying it. They felt as though they hadn’t eaten in a month, and every part of their body screamed in protest at still being upright and forced to move. 

Perhaps they ought to borrow some of Sabraen’s elfroot to make a medicinal balm for their neck. They had no idea if Haven would have a healer, and even if there was, who knew how willing they would be to give up valuable supplies to a suspect.

Rook supposed that was fair. They knew that they hadn’t murdered the Divine, but absolutely nobody else did. Other than Solas, which is probably why he stood up for Rook back when Cassandra was interrogating them.

Asaaranda wasn’t entirely sure how they felt about that. It made a significant amount of discomfort settle into their stomach. What benefit could he possibly gain from saving their life? What plans did he already have in mind?

It didn’t help that they felt incredibly close to passing out at any moment.

“Do you make a habit of facing pride demons, Rook?” Varric asked as the group continued up the mountain.

“Not a habit, just too many for one lifetime,” Asaaranda shot back, chuckling through another wince of pain.

“One’s enough for anyone,” Varric quipped back in turn. “If I never see one of those things again, it’ll be too soon.”

A warm, genuine smile settled across Asaaranda’s expression. How easily they had fallen back into a rapport with him. It was like Varric was really back. It was like he had never been gone in the first place. They supposed in a sense he was.

And what was the harm in clinging to that now?

Asaaranda stretched and yawned. “I agree. How much further until Haven, Seeker Pentaghast?”

Cassandra, who had been carrying Sabraen the entire time, huffed, “Shouldn’t be long now.”

Exhaustion was permeating through the entire group, so it was a relief to all when the fortifications of Haven finally rose to meet the setting sun of dusk over the horizon. The crowds of chantry guards and everyone in-between all scattered to the various buildings, seeking somewhere to rest their weary heads and for food to fill their empty bellies.

Rook slunk through Haven to the Singing Maiden, where Flissa was handing out bowls of stew to crowds of hungry people. Whispers seemed to follow them, which they didn’t take much notice of until someone near the bubbling cauldron of stew loudly told their friend, “That’s Rook! The other Faithful say they’re a Knight sent by the Maker to protect the Herald of Andraste.”

…what? ‘The Knight sent to protect the Herald of Andraste?’

“The Knight of the Maker and the Herald of Andraste, a Qunari and an Elf? You’re mental,” the other spat in disgust. Despite the blatant prejudice in the statement, Asaaranda couldn’t help but feel like they agreed. They weren’t here because of the damned Maker; they were here because of Solas.

“You didn’t see them both at the Breach. It was incredible. The Herald sealed the Breach with the Knight at their side, protecting them from the demon of pride with the skill of more than a thousand soldiers,” the gossiping woman insisted, grinning from ear to ear. “There is nothing mundane that could explain it, trust me.”

Asaaranda quickly grabbed their food and rushed over to the building that they’d been ordered to stay in by Cassandra and Leliana, to avoid any immediate visible reactions to the rumours they overheard.

They raced through the crowds of people, feeling like a bomb about to go off at any moment, and slammed the door behind them once they were inside. In fit of hysterical laughter, Asaaranda Mercar finally allowed themselves to fully cry and fall into ugly fitful sobs.

There was no possible version of reality where this had been the Maker’s intention all along. It couldn’t be, and yet it was just absurd enough to make Asaaranda doubt. This whole situation was outlandish beyond measure. They had travelled back in time, ten whole years into the past, and somehow they had gotten here from within the Fade after being trapped there by an Ancient Elven God.

Was everything they had experienced at the Lighthouse and beyond just to show them what was at stake? Had their whole life been fabricated to place them onto the board as something to be used in a game they scarcely understood?

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be – it had to be impossible.

With a clatter, their bowl of stew fell to floor as they did, knees buckling and hysterical hyperventilating abound. Knight of the fucking Maker? How in the hell were they supposed to live up to a title as grand as that?

‘Rook’ felt like an impossible title most days. Knight of the Maker was too damned far. They had to find a way out of Haven and back to the Lighthouse as soon as possible. Was there an Eluvian in Haven? There had to be an Eluvian, surely.

Asaaranda muffled their distress in their hands, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. They were clearly just exceptionally exhausted – as well as hungry, though they’d all but squandered their chance at a solid meal after dropping it on the floor - and in great need of sleep.

They picked themselves up from the floor, made quick work of their mess, and unfurled their bedroll to lay out on the opposite side of the room from Sabraen’s bed. Feeling hopeless and defeated, Asaaranda fell asleep not long after that.

**

The following morning, Asaaranda peeled themselves up from the floor with a groan. For as emotional and wildly out of sorts as they had been the previous day, a night’s rest had been a source of great renewal.

Shortly after they’d retrieved breakfast from the Singing Maiden again, Rook went to sit by Sabraen’s bedside while they plotted.

If they could find an Eluvian somewhere in Haven and try to fix it, there was a chance they could get back to the Lighthouse. It wasn’t a guarantee. They hadn’t come across an Eluvian that led this far south in their own time, but it wasn’t impossible.

Even if it didn’t lead into the section of the Crossroads with the Lighthouse Eluvian, they were fairly certain that they could find a way in if they found at least one functional Eluvian. Hell, maybe it didn’t even need to be functional, Bellara had explained the process of how she’d fixed the main Lighthouse Eluvian a couple different times.

Control the distortion, align the harmonics, something else then success, they were pretty sure. They’d paid enough attention to the Veil Jumpers and worked with enough elven artefacts in Arlathan to feasibly be able to gain access to even a broken Eluvian.

Admittedly, any artefacts they had personally fixed were with Solas’ lyrium dagger, which Rook had absolutely no damned clue about. ‘Varric’ had said something about recognising it back in the Lighthouse, but they couldn’t be sure that was reliable information.

Nonetheless, they spent their free time wandering around Haven in search of an Eluvian. A delightful fellow by the name of Chancellor Rodrick had attempted to get them arrested and taken to Val Royeaux, which Cassandra and Leliana vehemently refused to allow.

Avoiding Solas was an easy task, fortunately, as he devoted himself pretty much full-time to looking after Sabraen and watching over their recovery. Avoiding Varric, however…

He popped up seemingly all over Haven, including the places that Rook searched. It wasn’t impossible that he’d given the task to tail them and see what they were up to, but it was incredibly frustrating nonetheless.

Despite the fact that they knew Varric wasn’t dead in this time, their own traitorous little heart couldn’t help but surge and break all over again every time he came to talk to them.

All in all, Rook had made zero progress in finding an Eluvian. It was perhaps for the better that they didn’t, since they were sure somebody had to be tracking their movements whilst the Herald of Andraste was out.

It wasn’t until a few days later that Sabraen finally awoke, after having both Adan and Solas attending to the Anchor on their hand for the majority of that time. Asaaranda had more or less spent all that time watching over Sabraen, holing up in the cabin with them to avoid the scrutiny of the public.

Observing Solas in the interim was another benefit of such an act. Sure, he’d been nothing but pleasant and had looked after Sabraen with a remarkable gentleness. Yet, Rook knew he was suspicious. They just hadn’t figured out how to bring it up to someone yet. It felt too soon.

As Asaaranda contemplated the many possibilities ahead of them, Sabraen had snuck up behind them with the intent to have a much-needed conversation.

“Hey, Rook,” Sabraen greeted, gently as to not spook their companion. “How are you doing?”

“I should be asking you that, Herald,” Asaaranda hummed, shrugging. “How does it feel to be thrust into the role of divine scion?”

Sabraen grimaced, still trying to maintain a polite disposition nonetheless. “It’s not the most… comfortable. Just a few days ago, these people were calling for my execution for being a Dalish heretic and now they’re acting like they weren’t because they suddenly think one of their gods shot me out of the Fade.”

“You make a good point,” Asaaranda sympathised. “Vultures, the lot of them.”

The elf shrugged, “You must have gotten a better impression of their shift in attitude than me though. What is it they’re calling you, Knight of the Maker?”

Asaaranda shuddered, “Yep. It’s... I don't even know if bizarre fully covers it.”

Sabraen nodded, sympathy across their expression, “So… are you okay? You don’t have to elaborate, but…” Genuine concern from a place of sheer unselfishness… Maker, Sabraen was born for the role of Inquisitor. Asaaranda shrugged and flashed them a weak but genuine smile, “I’m managing. This whole thing is pretty overwhelming.”

“I know what you mean,” Sabraen replied with a sheepish grin. “It’s a big world out here, isn’t it? Especially with the Breach, it all feels like the world might swallow us whole.”

Asaaranda snorted. “Well, Ferelden is large. That probably doesn’t help.”

Sabraen got an inquisitive (ha!) glint in their eye. “Are you from Ferelden?”

“No, actually. Haven’t come this far South before,” Asaaranda answered honestly, deciding that spending their time constantly lying would prove exhausting and frankly what risk would the not-yet Inquisitor provide.  Then to complete this enjoyably mundane interaction, they added, “You?”

“My birth clan lived in the Brecilian Forest for a time, so I spent my youth in Ferelden, though we never came quite this far west,” Sabraen explained.

Asaaranda smiled. “Right, you’re Dalish. I had forgotten that.”

“Truly? My vallaslin didn’t give that away?” Sabraen teased, chuckling.

“I didn’t want to assume,” Asaaranda clarified, feeling suddenly like they had slipped and revealed something they shouldn’t have. “I knew of some who wore vallaslin as a mark of pride, despite living as city elves.”

“Mythal’enaste, that’s brave,” Sabraen gawked. “Wouldn’t they face discrimination for it?”

“Not much more than they normally would,” Asaaranda shrugged. “Most don’t distinguish between groups. If they see someone with horns, they’re not going to care to distinguish whether they’re Vashoth, Tal-Vashoth, or Qunari. Same with elves. May as well be true to yourself, right?”

Sabraen nodded, taking another sip of their ale. “I’ll admit, I’ve only the wildly exaggerated stories from my clan to go off. We’ve traded with various settlements in the past, but I didn’t get out to them much.”

Asaaranda chuckled. “Well, some of it may not be exaggeration. Cities are bizarre places, each of them stranger and more different than the rest.”

“You must travel a lot as well then,” Sabraen concluded, with great ease. “Any particular places you’ve seen?”

Damn, they were good. “Treviso, Minrathous… a couple places in the Anderfels, Nevarra City, others along the Rivaini coast. Never made it much further South than that,” Rook admitted truthfully with a great sense of unease.

In order to redirect the conversation, they added, “You said your birth clan was in Ferelden, right? Does that mean you moved clans?”

“Ah, right, yes. I moved to Clan Lavellan when I was twelve and got taken in by Keeper Deshanna as her apprentice to eventually become her First,” Sabraen explained. “My birth clan was facing too much templar scrutiny to keep me around.”

“Wasn’t it hard to leave your family?” Rook asked.

“For sure,” Sabraen shrugged. “But it’s not like I had much choice.”

Leaving family for bigger and better things, as well as for safety was something Rook understood well. Sure, the Shadow Dragons were work colleagues rather than family, but after inadvertently gaining the attention of the Venatori by rescuing slaves and an anti-slavery dignitary in Nessus, they’d had to flee Tevinter entirely in order to take the heat off themselves and the other Shadows.

They’d heard from a few of their closest friends in letters and even met up with a few on the road whilst pursuing Solas. On the opposite end of things, Asaaranda hadn’t heard from their adoptive family even once since they’d left Nessus with Varric, though they supposed they’d had no real obligation to do so.

For all intents and purposes, Legatus Charon Mercar and his wife were the legal guardians of Asaaranda, insofar as it allowed them to evade their former master, rather than provide them genuinely loving parents.  Not that it mattered here in this time, they supposed. No point contacting them, especially if they still intended to fly under the radar to prevent their true identity being found.

Any letters sent would almost certainly be redirected into the hands of Leliana or whatever spies she had on hand. It was too risky.

“By the way,” Sabraen interjected. “The Council wants me to head down to the Hinterlands with a couple of people, we’re looking for a Chantry Sister who wants to help. If you’re comfortable, I’d love for you to come?”

Asaaranda blinked dumbly, “Oh yeah, of course. I’m happy to.”

“Great!” Sabraen beamed pridefully. “There’s no hurry. We’re not heading out for a while, I think. Maybe a couple of hours?”

Rook nodded, and with that, Sabraen Lavellan departed and made their way throughout Haven on some other task (possibly to inform the others of their duty.)

It’s not like getting whisked up into simple tasks like these were a bad thing. It gave them less time to search for an Eluvian, but maintaining their helpfulness would take off any remaining suspicion.

What was the worst that could happen in the Hinterlands?

Chapter Text

If their trip through time should have prepared Asaaranda for anything, it was that the mundane had the power to prove itself utterly devastating.

Haven was somewhere on the north-western side of Ferelden, closer to the border of Orlais, and the Chantry Mother that they were going to see was somewhere in a village in a region of the Hinterlands. Not the most specific of directions, but Asaaranda knew Ferelden was fairly comparable in size to that of Tevinter, and so not every ounce of countryside could be accounted for.

They had no horses or even carriages for such a journey, so the party had been more or less forced to travel to the Hinterlands on-foot. Asaaranda had felt a little bit spoiled by their past (future?) self who had access to Eluvians that could take them anywhere in Thedas, especially as they had to journey through more snow-covered mountains and wilderness just to make it through to more wilderness.

Ferelden reminded them partially of Hossberg and the Anderfels, perhaps in part thanks to the remoteness of the Hinterlands and what looked to them like the scars left over from the Fifth Blight. The land was barren in patches, even where there clearly should have been life. It looked like an infection that had healed, but healed wrongly as to leave a permanent mark.

That being said, there were areas with lush vegetation and gorgeous flowering herbal plants. The amount of Crystal Grace, Embrium, and Elfroot alone was enough to prove that. Rook wondered if that’s what Hossberg would look like in the future. Scarred, yet thriving.

Eventually, they had arrived to the Hinterlands, specifically the Crossroads. It was all so simple, to make their way to a brand new place far from home, that Asaaranda had forgotten about the circumstances that brought them here.

Up until they saw her again.

There, at the top of the hill, at the edge of camp, she stood proudly in Inquisition armour, and Asaaranda’s heart stopped beating. “Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service. I—well, all of us here will do everything we can to help,” she declared.

The world reduced just to them, standing five feet away from each other. It felt as though they were looking at her from across a ravine, and an endless sea of grey.

Unbeknownst to Asaaranda, the others continued to speak. “Harding, huh? Ever been to Kirkwall’s Hightown?” Varric asked, a cheeky grin across his face.

Harding frowned, “I can’t say I have. Why?”

“You’d be Harding in—no, never mind,” he decided with a shrug.

Cassandra made a noise of disgust in response to Varric’s attempt at a joke and Sabraen had taken the lead in talking to Harding, allowing Rook to just fade into the background and fall into themselves.

Scout Harding.

It was undeniably her. Despite being ten years younger, having her hair done up into a bun instead of the twin braids with bangs that she did in Rook’s time, and no longer having the Stone magic that Solas’ dagger had granted her, Lace was every bit the woman that they fell in love with.

Asaaranda stumbled to the back of the group as the threat of tears stung at their eyes. If they looked at her for too long, they knew they would completely and utterly break. This had to be the cruellest possible reality. To have lost Harding on Tearstone Island, only to see her again in a manner so unremarkable that it didn’t feel like a reunion...

It was not even truly a reunion, Asaaranda realised. Harding had no idea who they were. She was going to meet them for the first time all over again and it was with absolutely none of the pretext or grandiose promise there had been when they first met in Nessus.

“Right. Thank you, Harding. Let’s get a move on. I don’t want to leave Mother Giselle in the middle of any more conflict if we can avoid it,” Sabraen declared as they settled on the course of action for the day.

Leadership seemed like it came so easy to them, Asaaranda lamented. When Rook was in charge, they’d often felt like a newborn halla, stumbling around hopelessly without guidance. It wasn’t—

A beat. A moment to breathe. Suddenly, Asaaranda had realised that everyone else had moved on. Solas, Cassandra, Varric and Sabraen had gone down the hill and left them behind with Harding, who was staring at them with a funny look in her eye.

Shit.

“You must be the one they’re calling the Knight of the Maker, sent to protect the Herald of Andraste from harm?” Harding surmised with a cock of her head and a shy yet earnest smile.

Asaaranda swallowed sharply, offering an unapologetically tense expression and a mumbled response, “…I prefer to be called Rook.”

“Rook,” she confirmed. “Well, I’m Harding. Inquisition Scout. Let me know if you have any questions or anything, I got a nice lay of the land for you.”

“I will,” Asaaranda lied, unable to do anything but lie, lest they fall apart at her feet. “Thank you, Am—Harding.”

The woman in question gave a polite nod and a wave goodbye as Rook frantically scrambled down the hill to join the others. Shame all but overwhelmed them all at once. Almost two weeks’ worth of carefully managed half-truths, lies of omission, constant hypervigilance and a handful of emotional crises, they had almost blown their cover in a single sentence.

Asaaranda had almost called Harding ‘Amatus’ to her face.

It was one thing for their traitorous longing heart to remember Harding as their lover. To behold their beloved in spirit alone should have been enough, but to call her as such directly…

Amatus. Amatus. Amatus.

Rook’s eyes fell upon the silhouettes of the party members ahead of them. Renowned author Varric Tethras, Seeker of Truth Cassandra Pentaghast, Herald of Andraste Sabraen Lavellan, and him. Solas. A man of no recent renown seemed like nothing in comparison to the rest of them.

That detestable lithe and slim elven figure, wearing unremarkable robes, bearing an even more unremarkable staff. He carried himself like a peacock, rather than a wolf, posturing about the peaks and valleys of the Ferelden countryside.

The sight of Solas’ swaying with such simple arrogance should have been enough to distract them  – to enrage them as he so often did – but even that could not take their mind off of Harding.

Every moment spent together, every battle fought, every memory that could not yet exist in the past or immediate future rang through Asaaranda’s mind like a battle cry. Every emotion they’d shared, every intimate moment undercut with the inability to touch lest Rook fall ill from lyrium poisoning that had made the longing that much stronger…

It was all there. All at once. No intervals, no moment to come up for air, just a sea of feeling in which Asaaranda Mercar was drowning.

When the party eventually reached the bottom of the hill, they arrived at one of many roads that led to the village of the Crossroads and the sounds of roaring battle became almost deafening.

If not for Sabraen’s call to arms, Rook would not have even noticed the approaching waves of mages. Each and every one of them fought like it was their last moment alive. Ravenous, desperate, raving…

They weren’t the coordinated, vicious monsters that the Chantry sisters around Haven claimed them to be. Most of them looked to just be people fighting with all that they had, seeing anyone and everyone to be their enemies. Angry, desperate, and misguided people. It was nothing like facing the foes of their own time, foes would never surrender no matter what. These people were closer to them than any others.

And yet that didn’t matter. Rook couldn’t stop to dissuade them from their path. There was only the choice to fight back and survive. Kill or be killed didn’t even cover the heart of the issue. It was kill or let the world be killed along with them.

Searing cold, crackling lightning, the second that bone is turned to ice and shattered in an instant by will alone – Rook couldn’t afford to let them live. One mage after another fell unceremoniously into the arms of death. Their lives ended and their names forgotten.

Asaaranda helped pull their corpses out of the road, figuring they were at least owed the dignity of not being squished, only to hear the cries of several more approaching foes.

“Kill the Inquisition!” Furious voices cried, supported by a chorus of various other similar sentiments. “Maleficarum sympathisers!” one called, punctuated by another, “Blood mage bastards!”

Templars. After all that Asaaranda had heard of Southern Templars through the sneers and disparaging whispers from various Tevinter courts and Magisterial parties, they quickly learnt the reality was much different. As one of them swung at them with a precision they had only seen in other military forces like the Antaam, Asaaranda quickly found themselves at a disadvantage.

Not because they could not hold their own in a fight, but because there was yet another distraction to fill their mind.

In an instant, Rook felt the pull of it, recognising the lullaby sung for the first time so many years ago yet one that was intimately familiar to them. It called, it cried out, it sang in tune with the memories of their lover’s lips against theirs.

Lyrium. The undeniable thrum of it ran through their veins and it was overwhelming. If Tevinter Templars were declawed cats or defanged vipers, these beasts before them were lions or wyverns.

There was no hesitance. There was no mercy. There was only sheer force.

Asaaranda readied a familiar ice spell, ready to blast all their enemies around them, when suddenly the Templar before them had stepped forward and silenced their magic entirely. It felt like being plunged into ice cold water. Their limbs and lips went numb, as every single part of their body was suddenly not their own to call upon. When they reached for their magic, there was nothing to grasp onto.

They were utterly powerless for the first time since being a child, and it terrified them more than anything. In Asaaranda’s panic, their grip on their staff faltered and their instinctual step backwards had them stumbling.

The templar roared as he moved closer and closer, drawing his shoulder back to strike at Rook, almost certainly to kill. There was nothing they could do, no skill they could conjure, no matter how hard they tried.

It was all gone. This was it.

And yet just before they could truly give in… “Rook!” Solas called, suddenly whisking them behind him and blasting the offending templar off his feet. With a gap in his defences, Cassandra could finally strike. In a swift blow to the centre of his chest, he had been struck through the heart and slaughtered like prey.

Solas had saved their life, Asaaranda realised with something akin to both horror and awe. If not for him, they would have died.

Rook’s fingers throbbed as their body suddenly rushed with magic. Every part of them tingled, like a blood rush to the head but all over. It was almost painful, how every sense of awareness came back to them without the dampening on their abilities.

Cassandra turned from the templar’s corpse with a huff. “Dead. Another second and the roles may have been reversed.”

She turned her gaze to Rook, a scalding scrutiny about it that made them shudder. “We cannot afford such mishaps. There will undoubtedly be more rogue Templars ahead of us on this journey. They cannot get the better of us.”

“Oh, lay off them Seeker,” Varric interjected. “It was an honest mistake. Right, Rook?”

Asaaranda nodded weakly, “Right. I was… distracted. I’m sorry, Seeker. It won’t happen again.”

“See? We’ve got no problem,” Varric insisted. “What do you say, Elfroot? Should we get to looking for that Chantry Mother?”

Seeing the redirection for what it was, Sabraen nodded. “Better than lingering here by these corpses. The sooner we talk to Mother Giselle, the better.”

Cassandra sighed but seemed to agree, as the two of them and Varric headed towards the village infirmary where Giselle was. Yet, lagging behind, Solas made eye contact with them and nodded very simply. An acknowledgement of the deed he had done for them, yet not an attempt to push them into thanks.

If not for the fact that they were still somewhat taken aback and recovering from the shock, Rook might have simply moved on without acknowledgement. It would have been petty and ultimately achieved nothing, but it would have felt like vindication, had the situation been different.

As it was, Asaaranda returned his gaze, nodded, and said, “Thank you, Solas.”

He gave them another nod and replied, “You are most welcome,” before he followed behind the rest of the group unceremoniously.

Eventually, so did Rook.

**

A meeting with the Chantry Mother, a couple of rifts, and several hours of hunting around the Hinterlands for refugees later, Asaaranda still had not quite shaken the feeling of the Templar’s silencing from their body.

The perpetual chill had hung around, the resounding sensation of emptiness had haunted them without reprieve even once the effects had worn off. Rook could reach for their magic and use it, but it felt like an impossible effort, unlike the ease they had grown accustomed to.

In truth, it scared them how powerless they felt. Perhaps it was hubris born of all the foes they had conquered in their own time, or the fact that they had never encountered a real Templar before, but they hadn’t been so thoroughly outmatched since they were a child.

A sense of powerlessness matched only by the same sense they’d had in Minrathous, all those years ago, before the Mercar family had taken them in. They felt impossibly small and impossibly helpless. Crushed under the weight of the entire world, as well as their own recently renewed heartbreak, Asaaranda stared into the dancing flames of the campfire in front of them numbly.

The Templar had silenced more than just their magic. He had silenced their spirit.

Unbeknownst to Rook, the others had been observing them with some concern since the incident at the Crossroads, Varric especially. While Cassandra busied herself with getting out of her armour, Solas assisted Sabraen with preparing ingredients for dinner, he had taken his place beside them at the campfire.

He watched their mindless gaze, the way they held themselves so hopelessly when once they seemed quite playful, and found himself reminded of Hawke. Pandora Hawke, for all that they often insisted they were fine, was frequently visited by troubles. In the past, when trying to reach out and comfort them, Pandora had shrugged him off with a tight smile and a poor taste joke, or would just shut down completely.

In that moment, Varric knew what he had to do in order to get through to this kid. “So, Rook, what’s your stake in this whole thing?” he asked them, seemingly out of nowhere.

Rook blinked at him in confusion, slightly bleary from gazing into the blazing fire. “Hmm?” Their eyes were watering and they hadn’t really been listening to anything but the roar between their ears, so the question hadn’t really registered in their mind.

Nonetheless, Varric persisted. “The Conclave, the whole conflict between the mages and templars, all of it. Where do you throw your lot?” he pressed, casual yet insistent.

It was a fair enough question. The Inquisition was supposed to be a neutral force to stop the Mage-Templar ‘war’, if one could even really call it that. Circle of Magi politics eluded them in a lot of ways, but they knew now that Southern Templars weren’t the fangless fodder that they were in Tevinter. Asaaranda weakly snorted in response, “Uh, well, let me put it this way: I’m a Qunari mage. That should tell you a lot.”

“Why would that tell you a lot?” Sabraen inquired, as they took their own place amongst the party at the fireside to allow the stew to simmer.

“It doesn’t really,” Varric interjected before Rook could answer. “The only Qunari mage I’ve ever known was a Saarebas that got caught up in Kirkwall. Can’t say that Rook is anything like that guy.”

Rook shrugged. “I can’t say for sure. I’ve never read your ‘Tale of the Champion,’ so Ketojan and I might have something in common other than just being Qunari mages.”

Varric’s trail of thought abruptly came to a halt, even as Cassandra interjected with an offended exclamation, “You haven’t read it?! How could you not have read it? Do you even know who Hawke is?”

“I’ve not read it either, Cassandra,” Sabraen admitted shyly, which only added to her squawks of indignation.

“But, but… it is one of the key components of the entire mage rebellion! The whole story, what happened in Kirkwall is part of what inspired the vote of separation from the Circle of Magi! Are you telling me that neither of you know the truth of what happened there?” Cassandra gawked.

Sabraen flashed her an apologetic look. “Sorry? I just never got around to it.”

Cassandra despaired, clutching her chest woefully as she cried, “Oh, Solas. Tell me you at least have read it?”

Solas gave her an equally apologetic smirk. “I have heard much of the story in passing, but I admit I have not often had the opportunity to sit down and read it fully, spending as much time as I do searching the Fade.”

The Seeker finally fell apart in a spectacular heap. She had been utterly bamboozled and blindsided by her companions lack of history with the tale, and she began to explain to them with great earnest why it was imperative that they read it immediately for the good of the Inquisition.

Yet, Varric did not rejoin the conversation, despite the good-natured teasing and banter that had begun on Cassandra. Instead, he was stuck in thought. The story of what happened with Sister Petrice and the Saarebas Ketojan was a significant turning point in Varric’s version of events of what happened in Kirkwall, but most people only knew that detail if they had read the book themselves.

More importantly, very few people who had even read the book could recall the name of the Qunari mage in question. So, how was it that Rook knew what he had been called without Varric ever saying it? It was only possible if they had read the book, yet here they were claiming to have never read it.

Why would they lie about such an innocuous thing, he wondered. It’s not like he was unused to people telling harmless lies for seemingly no reason, but it was bizarre for someone to immediately contradict their own story if they had nothing to hide.

It all led him to contemplate one thing: what was Rook hiding?

Chapter Text

They all spent another three weeks clearing up rifts, fought against attacking apostates and templars, acquired horses from Master Dennett and assisted refugees in the Hinterlands, before Sabraen eventually received a letter from Leliana that summoned them all back to Haven, with the intention of discussing further plans for approaching the Chantry in Val Royeaux. It would be a week before they were all approved for departure, to allow for brief respite for those who had been in the Hinterlands as well as to arrange further aspects such as accommodation, horses, supplies, and more.

In the meantime, Asaaranda had finally had time to be formally introduced to the last of the council: Ambassador Josephine Montilyet and the Commander Cullen Rutherford. Josephine had called Rook into her office early one morning. “Ah, Rook, thank you for coming. May I have a word?”

“What can I help with?” Asaaranda asked, bowing politely. Josephine cleared her throat, and held herself up straighter as she spoke. “A few small matters requiring your attention and insight has come up, and I hoped we could have a discussion about them, if you are willing.”

“Depending what it is, of course,” they replied truthfully.

Josephine smiled politely. “Excellent. First and foremost, there have been…some concerns raised. Regarding where you grew up, or rather what your background is. I had hoped you might clear up some rumours.”

“What rumours, might I ask?” Asaaranda frowned. 

Josephine’s expression fell ever so slightly, though she did her best not to show it. “Some people have begun to question whether you… Given that you are being referred to by many faithful as ‘the Knight of the Maker,’ some have thought to ask whether you yourself follow the Chant of Light.”

Ah. What a question, though Asaaranda knew that was not what Josephine truly wanted to know. They gave her a tight-lipped smile in response and angled their head away from her in a slight grimace. “Ah. You really mean to ask whether I follow the Qun.”

Josephine gave an apologetic nod. “There is… no simple way to ask such a question, Rook. I do apologise if I’ve caused any offense?”

“I’m not upset,” they shrugged. It was hardly the first time someone had asked a well-meaning yet slightly awkward question about their religion and cultural background. “I understand.”

“Right. So…?” she trailed off, anticipating a response.

Asaaranda sighed, admitting the truth without second thought. “I do not, Ambassador. If I did, I would not be here.”

“Right! Right. Of course. I do apologise, Rook,” Josephine insisted, that same professional yet awkward smile returning to her features all at once. “I will make sure to dispel any rumours about your connection to the Qun.”

Asaaranda quickly departed, feeling a sense of unnerve build in the pit of their stomach. It wasn’t like people didn’t have a reason to doubt them. They had been particularly cagey about themselves and it had apparently had the effect of leaving their whole deal up for wild speculation.

It was perhaps for that reason, they had a less than ideal interaction with Commander Cullen that same day. He was out in the temporary training grounds with a dozen different recruits, mostly farmhands, a few former templars, and unskilled civilians who had taken up arms for the Inquisition.

“Keep your shields up! You’re covering nothing from attack, you may as well not have a shield the way you’re holding it!” Cullen barked, watching over the men with a scornful look. He rubbed at the tension between his brow and hissed lowly under his breath, unaware of the approaching Qunari behind him.

“Hello?” they called, startling him so much he reflexively flinched at them with his clipboard like it was a weapon. He hissed in disapproval, “Maker’s breath, I didn’t see you.”

“Apologies for startling you. I don’t think we’ve spoken since the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Asaaranda greeted, with a low bow and polite expression.

Cullen gave them a tense nod, clenching his jaw tightly in their direction. “It’s alright. Rook, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Rook confirmed. “Commander Rutherford, right? You’re the Templar that Leliana and Cassandra recruited to run the Inquisition’s forces?”

He grimaced with an almost vitriolic glare and cleared his throat roughly. “Cullen, if you please.”

“Cullen, right. So you are a Templar? I just wanted to make sure. I had heard that you were a high ranking one, like a Knight-Commander or something? Is that true?” Asaaranda insisted again, apparently unaware of Cullen’s increasing tension.

Cullen’s expression grew increasingly irritated. “I have left that life far behind me. What I was before is of little consequence.”

“Ah, sorry, that’s not what I meant,” Rook clarified. “I meant to say... You’re like an actual templar, right? One of the ones with the ability to silence mages?”

“I really do not have time for this,” he protested. Yet despite his protests, Rook pursued. “So, you are? You know how to silence mages? That is to say, if you were able to, would you silence me?”

This apparently proved to be the straw to break the camel’s back as his expression became actively vicious. “Enough of the questions! I have drills to run, Rook,” Cullen snapped, loud enough to gain seemingly the entirety of Haven’s attention.

Asaaranda froze as dozens of eyes fell upon them in what felt like deep scrutiny and judgement. “If you would excuse me,” Cullen added, low under his breath for their ears only, as he returned to work.

Embarrassed and feeling more than a little chastised, Asaaranda retreated back behind the walls of Haven with the intention of hiding away in the cottage they shared with the Inquisitor. “Don’t mind Curly over there, Rook,” Varric reassured as they began to pass him. “He’s the twitchy type. Knew him back in Kirkwall during the Qunari occupation.”

Asaaranda paused in their stride. They’d been avoiding conversation far too much since the Hinterlands, and they figured going any longer would invite more scrutiny than Cullen’s public scolding already had.

“Ah. That explains it,” Rook remarked with a nervous chuckle, clicking their tongue reflexively. “I was hoping to train with a Templar so I could get used to their silencing abilities on the field properly.”

Varric nodded, eyes sparkling in realisation. “Still feeling it from that incident in the Crossroads, huh?”

“Yeah. No idea what the situation will be like once the Breach is closed, but I’m not entirely convinced the Chantry won’t find a way to make quick work of me when this is done, so I’d like to have some kind of defense against them in the future,” Asaaranda admitted with a shrug.

“That’s if the Templars go back to the Chantry, I guess. Still, always good to be cautious,” Varric conceded. A moment passed and he said,  “You know, you never did say what your opinion was on the whole Templar-Mage conflict. We got kinda sidetracked when Cassandra heard you hadn’t read any of my works.”

Asaaranda nodded, feeling the tension from Cullen’s scolding return all at once. “Ah. Of course. Well, I know you said my being a Qunari Mage didn’t actually make my opinion that clear, but…”

“All it really tells me is that you’ve got a pair of horns and you can shoot lightning out your ass,” Varric insisted light-heartedly with a cocked eyebrow. “You’re kind of mysterious, Rook. People don’t know what to make of you.”

Their heart thumped in their chest as a chill ran over them. Rook forced themselves to maintain a calm disposition, even as they felt like prey being hunted.  

“Well, just this morning I got interrogated by Josephine who wanted to know if I followed the Qun, so… I guess you make a good point,” Rook conceded with a dejected sigh. “If I’m honest? I didn’t really have an opinion on the war.”

Varric paused, then replied with a simple, “Huh. Really?”

Rook nodded and shrugged again. “I mean… I don’t think it should be the business of the Chantry to lock people up just for being mages, but I understand that magic is dangerous.”

“It is one of the Chantry’s big principles. ‘Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,’ and so forth,” Varric shrugged, unaware of the ramping anxiety that Rook had begun to feel. “Though, I’m sure you don’t need me quoting doctrine at you.”

With another nervous chuckle, Asaaranda joked, “Probably not. Wouldn’t want to mistake you for the next Divine, Varric.”

A warm smile appeared across the dwarf’s expression, as he chuckled in response, “The day someone genuinely mistakes me for the Divine is the day someone owes me a lot of money and the Chantry has an even bigger upset than the Conclave.”

Asaaranda chuckled in return, “The South could use a fresh perspective, I think. Between the Herald being Dalish and you being a Dwarf, it’d probably get people to pull their heads in about all this shit.”

It was so quick that Rook hadn’t even noticed their slip-up, but Varric did. Though ‘the South’ could have theoretically meant just Orlais and Ferelden as the southernmost nations, very few people referred to just those two regions. Centuries of religious politics and cultural division had left all Chantry-controlled nations as ‘the South’ and had left all but three places as ‘the North.’

Tevinter, Par Vollen, and Seheron.

On its own, Rook’s simple slip wasn’t concrete evidence of anything suspicious. Varric couldn’t be a hundred percent sure what it meant. Even when accounting for Rook’s knowledge of Ketojan despite their claim not to have read the Tale of the Champion, those two tidbits alone were not enough to incriminate them, but it did raise some alarm bells in his head.

If they were from the North as he now suspected they were, suddenly being declared ‘Knight of the Maker’ would have prompted some kind of response, but they’d been so closed about it from what he’d observed. Most of the time, they didn’t seem the type to shut down conversation, especially not given the ease with which they joked around. Yet every time it got personal, they would redirect the topic in some way.

He was almost certain that Rook was hiding their history now, but what he couldn’t figure out was why. Varric forced himself to maintain his carefree expression and body language, as he added, “Well, let’s hope once this shit is all over, we can all go home while some sympathetic sister opens her arms to embrace all us non-human faithful.”

Rook suddenly got very stiff, and Varric watched as they plastered on a very obvious fake grin of amusement. “Indeed. Speaking of, I should go find Sabraen, we were going to chat about the upcoming trip to Val Royeaux. I’ll see you around, Varric.”

With that, Rook promptly departed and left Varric on his own to contemplate the larger implications. Whatever they were hiding, it was something they were keeping damned close to their chest.

Varric just hoped whatever it was, it wouldn’t be as big or explosive as it had been with Anders.

**

Another week in Haven passed by more or less unceremoniously. Asaaranda’s goal of training with a Templar hadn’t been fulfilled, as they were frankly too nervous to begin thinking about approaching Cullen again, for fear of invoking the same reaction.

Infuriatingly, Asaaranda had also not made any progress in finding an Eluvian around Haven whatsoever. The most Haven had to offer in terms of interest were mountains, elfroot, and nugs. They’d managed to stay more discreet somewhat since their unfortunate interaction with Cullen, but they were never truly anonymous in Haven being the only Qunari there.

Josephine had remained true to her word, and they had begun hearing less whispers about their alleged connection to the Qun, but that had all but been replaced by fascinated whispers about their faith in the Maker, and how it all suddenly made sense that they had been Maker sent.

They supposed it could have been much worse, even if the thought of actually being Maker-sent made them sick to their stomach.

They knew that they should have been finding some way of getting the Inquisition to start looking into Solas, but he had made himself so unremarkable that they were sure nobody would believe them if they brought it up. Plus, they had nothing to go off but their word alone, and despite the image they had gained from being in close proximity to the Herald of Andraste, Rook knew there were still too many doubts on themselves to even contemplate going on the offensive now.

It just wasn’t a good time. Though, they weren’t sure when exactly would be a good time.

After Val Royeaux, the Inquisition would need to seek out either the Templars or Mages as allies to assist in the closing of the Breach. In the past, in the version of history that they were seemingly reliving now, the mages were recruited and the Breach had again been sealed.

Then, Corypheus appeared and attacked Haven with his army of Red Templars. Dozens of people died. Haven fell under blighted dragon attacks, avalanches, and Corypheus’ forces, all while those who remained fled into the Wilderness. It was only with Solas’ knowledge that the Inquisition’s people found Skyhold, an old fortress that had become the very heart of their efforts.

In the moments between those events, Rook doubted their ability to find an opportunity where they could expose Solas for what he was without endangering people’s lives. Not to mention that the risk the Anchor provided to Sabraen’s wellbeing without his presence. If the Herald passed before Corypheus was defeated, then all would be lost.

Solas, unlike Rook, had made himself invaluable.

They had to figure something out, somehow. If they couldn’t find a way back to the Lighthouse or their own time, they had to content themselves with stopping Solas in the past/new present. Whichever opportunity best presented itself, that was the one Asaaranda would take.

They just had to be patient. Patience was admittedly not their greatest virtue. They needed tasks to complete, things to achieve.

Hence, they were in the muck of the stables helping out with the horses. In lieu of having anything else to do, Asaaranda decided to busy themselves with assisting Dennett with the horses and other mounts that had arrived to Haven in preparation for the journey to Val Royeaux.

“Is this really the sort of work you ought to be doing, Ser Knight?” Dennett asked as they busied themselves with cleaning out each of the stalls. “Aren’t you Maker-sent, or something?”

“That’s what some people tell me,” Rook agreed. “Doesn’t mean I can just spend all day sitting around on my Maker-sent ass. Besides, I like doing this. It’s simple work and it doesn’t involve demons.”

It was a series of familiar tasks they had done countless times back in Qarinus before the Mercar family had taken them in, even if it felt like a lifetime ago. To think that they would ever look back on days like those with something akin to fond nostalgia… it was somewhat unnerving.

He shrugged. “To each their own, I suppose.”

While Dennett busied himself with grooming the various mounts, Asaaranda mucked out each of the stalls and pens in which the various mounts resided. Not all of Master Dennet’s horses had been taken to Haven, only half a dozen of them had been brought in anticipation of the party who were due to join the Herald in Val Royeaux – namely Cassandra, Varric, Solas, and themselves.  

Unbeknownst to Rook, a wolf stalked silently through the snowy mountains of Haven, steady in his approach. He rounded the corner and came down the stairs in a slow yet deliberate crawl, as if each step was worthy of its own careful consideration. His hunt was on the horizon, his target decided.

And then, he struck.

“Rook. I was hoping we might have a word?” Solas said simply. Rook popped up from the stall and immediately hit the side of their horn against the frame of the open arc with a crack as they startled from Solas’ approach. “Kaffas—ah, Solas! One second.”

Asaaranda quickly ran their hand up to their horn, assessing with the tips of their fingers for any damage. They were mortified and on-guard all at once. In all that they’d observed Solas around Haven, he had never shown himself to be the type of person who approached people with questions without purpose. What in the hell could he possibly want?

Their horn throbbed painfully, though they couldn’t feel any kind of splinter or break where they had slammed it against the wall. They were likely to just have a bit of swelling and a bruise later to mark the occasion. Rook could’ve sworn they already had a headache form, however.

Rook stumbled out of the stable with as collected of an expression as they could muster. “Right. Sorry about that. You wanted a word?”

“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind,” he agreed. Solas meandered them both away from the stables, to a more quiet section of the wilderness on the outskirts of Haven. Dutifully, Asaaranda followed with only the slightest hint of reluctance.

Then, Solas spoke, “’The Knight of the Maker, blessed protector of the one who would save the world.’ A lofty title, is it not?”

Asaaranda agreed with a hum of suspicion, “It is. One I’m surprised that the Maker’s Faithful would give so easily to a Qunari who they once thought killed their Most Holy.”

“There are still those among the Maker’s Faithful who blame you for the Conclave, I imagine,” Solas reminded unhelpfully. “Yet more who believe in your position as the Herald’s spiritually ordained bodyguard flock to this place every day.”

Despite the relative neutrality of the statements, Rook could not help but shudder. It felt too similar to when he was praising them after infiltrating the Venatori camp in Arlathan. It was too close to the Solas of their time for comfort.

“I suppose you want to suggest that I take advantage of such a position?” Asaaranda surmised with a frown, as they crossed their arms sternly.

“If you were looking for such a suggestion, I might make one of a similar course, yes,” Solas agreed with a slight shrug. “I am hardly the only one who has noticed your current reluctance. Such reluctance may give your enemies reason to doubt you. Doubt creates opportunity for your allies to lose hope, and in turn that may cost you the battle. Our battle against the Breach is not one we can afford to lose.”

To anyone not privy to Asaaranda’s own history with the Veil and the Fade, their next reaction may have appeared somewhat extreme.

“I am not like Sabraen, Solas,” Rook countered. “People have reason to believe in them. They’re the Herald of Andraste, a hero who sealed the Breach. I am a nobody who fell out of a rift with nothing to show for it.”

Solas clicked his tongue in disapproval, “Sadly, this world does not let us choose our own reputations. Enough people believe you to be Maker-sent, and thus that is what you appear to be. The only way for you to be remembered as nobody now would be for the Breach to consume us all.”

Asaaranda scowled. He had a damn point, Maker, they hated it when he made a good point. Still, just to spite him, they added, “Even so. The Faithful have their hero in Sabraen Lavellan.”

“If it is the title of hero that unnerves you so, Rook, perhaps you could content yourself with fulfilling the role of an advisor and bodyguard,” Solas suggested. “Is that something you would be amenable to?”

Rook frowned with increasing suspicion. “…why are you being so insistent on this, Solas?”

Unabashed frustration blossomed across Solas’ expression all at once. “I had merely hoped to press upon you the necessity of taking what advantages you can, that is all. Something to contemplate ahead of our upcoming journey to Val Royeaux. You are one of two who lived through the explosion at the Conclave, where hundreds of others died. That is not as insignificant as you frame it to be.”

Asaaranda narrowed their eyes. What in the hell was his angle? Still, they were getting dangerously emotional and frustrated. If they allowed him to press their buttons anymore, they weren’t sure if they were going to be able to hold their temper back.

“…perhaps you make a good point,” Asaaranda conceded after a deep breath. “So, I play up the whole ‘Maker-sent’ thing. How exactly would you suggest I do so?”

A much calmer and more pleased expression fell upon Solas’ face at their concession. “Do not throw away their faith in you,” Solas advised. “Some posturing is necessary. That starts with not throwing yourself into grunt work like mucking out stables.”

Rook barely held back from rolling their eyes. Of course, their one sense of something normal and familiar… “And?”

“And I would advise that you start attending the War Council meetings. The more that you distance yourself from the Inquisition’s inner circle, the more you risk giving reason to doubt. Not to mention the risk to your own life,” Solas continued. “All this to say… once we are in Val Royeaux, the Herald plans to address the Chantry there. They will expect answers from you as well. You will want to give them something, for your own sake, lest they find something else on their own.”

Was he giving them advice on how to lie properly? The damned God of Trickery and Deception had earnestly looked them in the eye and all but said, ‘I know you’re up to something.’ Fuck. Did he know? If he knew fully, then… What the hell was all this waiting around supposed to be anyway?

Asaaranda nodded hesitantly, giving Solas no indication of their brand new crisis. “Very well. I guess I’ve got a lot to contemplate before we depart for Val Royeaux.”

“Indeed,” Solas agreed. “Good evening for now, Rook. I will be around if you wish to discuss this further before our departure.”

With that, he bowed and retreated back inside the walls of Haven. Asaaranda untensed their shoulders and sighed. Between Solas’ implication that he knew something and their potentially bruised horn, Rook knew they were going to have one hell of headache for quite a while.

Chapter Text

Despite their utter reluctance to listen to any of his advice, Rook had to admit there was some merit to what Solas had told them. They attended their first War Council meeting, after avoiding them like the absolute plague. It proved to be fruitful almost immediately.

“Rook, I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour the other day,” Cullen remarked as they took their seat around the war table for the first time. “I had been nursing a migraine for a few days when you came to talk and had taken the frustration out on you unfairly.”

They blinked dumbly at him, completely taken off guard by the genuine apology. “Oh, shit, was that it? I’m sorry I didn’t notice,” Asaaranda apologised in turn. “I shouldn’t have pushed the issue quite so much.”

A warm if slightly bashful expression fell across Cullen’s features. “It’s alright. In your position, I would do the same. Given that I was a Templar, I understand your distrust of me,” Cullen sighed.

“What gives you that impression?” Rook asked, continually taken aback and surprised.

Cullen in turn also looked somewhat surprised at their surprise. “When you asked about my ability to silence and whether I would ever turn that against you?”

“Kaffas, no, that’s not what I—I was hoping that we might train together at some point,” Asaaranda clarified, then under their breath for just Cullen to hear added, “Back in the Hinterlands… That was the first time I’d ever been silenced by a Templar. It scared me more than I’d like to admit and I was hoping to try and get used to it so that I won’t be completely useless on the battlefield next time it happens.”

Cullen hummed in realisation. “Oh, that’s why? Well… I can’t say it’s a bad idea. I’ve no doubt you’ll be encountering more rogue Templars on the road. Though, with your departure to Val Royeaux coming up, I’m not sure we’ll find the time.”

Asaaranda rushed to reassure him, “It was just a thought. You’ve got recruits to train, I’ve got a Herald to accompany. We’re both pretty busy as is…”

“We can figure something out,” Cullen decided with some finality. “We’ve got time.”

“Indeed,” Rook agreed. “Thanks, Cullen.”

“Anytime,” he insisted.

Soon after, the official meeting began and Asaaranda felt as though a weight had been lifted from their shoulders. For all the times that they had sorted out disagreements and conflicts in their own time, they weren’t prepared to face the consequences if they made an enemy of the Inquisition.

During the meeting, the council ran over various reports about the watchtowers that had been built in the Hinterlands, the results of contact with Teryn Fergus Cousland, and a hack writer who had published a fake sequel to Varric’s Hard in Hightown serial.

There was even a letter sent from Sabraen’s own clan, asking after them and their safety amongst the Inquisition. They’d swiftly decided on an appropriate response, sending the some of Leliana’s spies in tow with a gift to reassure Clan Lavellan that they were both alive and exactly where they wanted to be.

Following that, the council confirmed that they had secured passage from Haven to Val Royeaux, and that the horses were prepared for such a journey. The Chantry Clerics had finally agreed to meet and were expecting the Herald of Andraste and the Knight of the Maker at the agreed upon date and time.

Rook kept internally cringing and wishing to be swallowed whole by the Breach every time their new title was mentioned in any amount of earnest. At least, they had thought they were keeping their thoughts and feelings internal until Sabraen pulled them aside on the journey over to Val Royeaux.

“The Council are really not letting up on this whole Herald and Knight business, are they?” Sabraen observed as neutrally as possible. “I noticed you kept tensing every time they mentioned it. You okay?”

It was rare for Asaaranda Mercar to ever reliably tell the truth to Sabraen Lavellan in this time, but this was one of the rare occasions where their guard was down enough to do so.

Asaaranda sighed wistfully, “I don’t know. It just feels…I didn’t ask for this title to suddenly be on my shoulders. I don’t understand why I’m here. You at least have the mark, you have a reason to be chosen. I don’t have that same acclaim.”

Sabraen chuckled ironically, “So, even you think I was sent by Andraste?”

Rook knew that the mark they bore was Solas’. They knew that it had been his orb that had given them the Anchor, not Andraste. Yet, it was said that the Maker moved in mysterious ways, if the Maker was to be believed.

The Elven Gods were real. Why not the Maker, they supposed. The Mercar Family were Andrastian, as most humans in Thedas were, yet they had never once thought of themselves as Andrastian, not really. As a child, no god answered their prayers. As a teenager, once the Mercars had taken them in, they found no comfort in the arms of the Imperial Chantry nor their depiction of the Maker.

“I don’t know,” Asaaranda decided finally. “I’m not sure it really matters. I just wish we had some more clarity on what brought us here, you know?”

Sabraen hummed in agreement. “Indeed. Right now, we can just be practical about it. Sealing the Breach for good is what matters. That goal is the only thing standing between us and a world full of chaos and demons forever.” 

Asaaranda grimaced again and nodded. “Guess that’s what we’ll focus on with the Chantry? That regardless of whether you and I are sent by the Maker or Andraste, if the Veil falls, then we’re all fucked.”

As the words left their mouth, Rook realised that they had again ended up following Solas’ advice and their scowl returned again in full force. Apparently the Herald found their expression amusing as they chuckled lightly, “Good plan. Though, maybe we’ll phrase it slightly more delicately, lest one of the Chantry Mothers faints from shock.”

With those plans in mind, Asaaranda and Sabraen had approached Val Royeaux with every intention on getting the Chantry to see their point of view based on practicality alone. Right up until the Templars made an appearance and Lord Seeker Lucius decked the Chantry Mother in the face.

She fell to the ground with a glorious smack that resounded throughout the market courtyard. Asaaranda watched with both interest and mild horror as he brushed Cassandra aside, declared the Inquisition heretical and ordered the Templars away from Val Royeaux.

Something odd was clearly happening with him, though Maker only knew what.

“Well, that was dramatic…” Sabraen muttered. “Something felt off about the Lord Seeker, though I can’t place it.”

“I agree,” Cassandra added. “This war has pushed many of us to our limits, but to have such an extreme reaction… it seems unlike him.”

Varric shrugged, “Well, without a Divine, the Chantry’s influence is limited anyway. We’ve gotta take our chances elsewhere. Seems like whatever’s going on with the Lord Seeker might lead us to some answers?”

“Possibly,” Sabraen agreed. “We should head back to Haven soon, either way. I wanna circle around the markets for some supplies and then we can go.”

After their wandering around the market for supplies, they were all quickly inundated with opportunity. A letter sent by arrow from someone called ‘Red Jenny’ as well as a formal invitation to a soirée hosted by Vivienne de Fer, First Enchanter of the Montsimmard Circle.

Yet, even as they went to leave Val Royeaux, the window of opportunity still had more to give. An elven woman dressed in Circle Robes approached them all at the gates of the city, appearing alone and without a staff in hand. “If I might have a moment of your time…” she began.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona?” Cassandra stated, rather than asked. Solas answered nonetheless, “Leader of the Mage Rebellion. Is it not dangerous for you to be here?”

“I had heard of this gathering. And I wanted to see the Fabled Herald of Andraste and Knight of the Maker with my own eyes,” Fiona explained with a nod of acknowledgement in Sabraen and Asaaranda’s direction. “If it’s help with the Breach you seek, perhaps you should look among your fellow mages.”

Sabraen hummed questioningly, “I’m surprised that the leader of the mages wasn’t at the Conclave.”

Cassandra piped up once more, “Yes. You were supposed to be, and yet somehow you avoided death.”

“As did the Lord Seeker, you’ll note,” Fiona reminded coolly. “Both of us sent negotiators in our stead in case it was a trap. I won’t pretend I’m not glad to live. I lost many friends that day. It disgusts me to think the Templars will get away with it. I’m hoping you won’t let them.”

Sabraen probed again, “So you think the Templars are responsible?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Cassandra remarked.

“Lucius hardly seems broken up over his losses, if he’s concerned about them at all,” Fiona said, pointedly ignoring Cassandra’s comment. “You heard. You think he wouldn’t happily kill the Divine to turn people against us? So yes, I think he did it. More than I think either of you did it, at any rate.”

“So does that mean you’ll help us?” Sabraen questioned, eyes flickering over to Asaaranda for affirmation. Rook shrugged, gesturing back over to the rebel leader.

Fiona clarified, “We are willing to discuss it, at least. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe. Come, meet with the mages. An alliance could help us both, after all.”

She took a step back, bowed formally, and said her goodbyes. “I hope to see you there. Au revoir to you both, Ser Herald and Ser Knight.”

As she departed, so too did the Inquisition. The journey back to Haven was mostly unremarkable, except for the sudden and unexpected acquisition of two new members to the Inner Circle – Madame Vivienne de Fer, the Circle Mage loyalist who had invited them to the soiree, and Sera, a friend of Red Jenny.

Both women were somewhat eccentric in their own ways, and yet they slotted perfectly into the Inquisition like they were meant to be there all their lives. Sera reminded Rook somewhat of another Shadow Dragon that they had known back in Minrathous – rambunctious, a bit childish, and yet deeply aware of the injustices handed down to the ‘little people’. She had briefly checked Asaaranda out, dreamily sighed that they were “well fit,” before heading straight into business.

Vivienne was exactly as Varric had described her to be – an icy cold woman with a noble disposition and a terrifying demeanour enough to make anyone shatter apart into dozens of pieces. Asaaranda wasn’t sure what to make of her, in all honesty. She was not a woman who wore her heart on her sleeve, rather she was the type to keep her hand hidden within like one might whilst playing Wicked Grace.

Either way, they too joined the journey back to Haven and Asaaranda made sure to exchange niceties with them, in accordance with the advice Solas had given them. They had to keep up a good image, at least until the right opportunity came along and they could leave all of this behind to go back to their own damn time.

There was still so much to be done in the Hinterlands, still, so Sabraen would have time to make a choice, and Rook’s own plans in turn would have to wait just a little bit longer.

**

“Back in the Hinterlands again. What’s the plan for this trip, Elfroot?” Varric asked as he finished getting ready.

“Well, we’ve still got a few rifts we haven’t hit yet,” Sabraen explained, pointing to each squiggle that indicated rifts on their map. “We’ve got reports of an unusual one up north that may be worth closing sooner than later.”

“The one along Redcliffe road? Are we going to recruit the mages while we’re there?” Cassandra questioned.

“I want to at least meet with Grand Enchanter Fiona in Redcliffe,” Sabraen said. “We can consider our options and arrange a formal alliance with either the mages or templars once we have a better picture of what’s going on.”

With the course of action decided, the journey northward to Redcliffe began. The roads were mostly clear, save for a few straggler rogue templars and bandits. It was not long before they arrived at the gates of Redcliffe where the strange rift had been marked on their map.

Like all before it, the rift crackled and gurgled dangerously, all at once spitting out half a dozen different demons in flashes of green lightning. It all appeared to be normal, except for the bubbles of magic that formed around the rift and seemed to almost boil the air around them.

Asaaranda had been so focused on observing the pustule-like magic formations that they hadn’t noticed the Terror Demon surging up from underneath them until they were already thrown backwards onto the ground by it, straight into the centre of one of the bubbles.

And then, the world around them seemed to run twice as fast normal. Cassandra moved like a viper, striking faster than humanly possible. Solas and Sabraen’s spells too seemed impossibly fast, and Varric’s arrows struck true in less than a blink of an eye.

Yet Rook’s limbs felt heavy, like moving them took twice as much effort and time. The demon that had pinned them down also moved in slow motion, opening its horrific approximation of a mouth to screech in their face in a motion that took seemed to drag on.

With some effort, Asaaranda rolled out from underneath the demon, as well as the Fade Bubble, and gasped as everything seemed to go back to normal again. Head spinning from the change in speed, Rook forced themselves to their feet and rushed away from the bubbles in order to fire at the terror demon from a distance.

From the outside of the bubble, Rook watched as the demon lagged in its movements. The Fade bubbles were doing something odd, something that they couldn’t comprehend whilst their head pounded with an adrenaline rush.

Each member of the party fought as fiercely as they could, sending wave after wave of demon to its demise, until the fabric of the veil finally unpuckered and released to allow Sabraen to finally seal it closed.

The bubbles disappeared once they did, leaving no trace of any evidence that such a phenomenon had even occurred. Sabraen guffawed in a mixture of bafflement and fear, “What… was that?”

“Did anyone else feel that? Everything felt wobbly and slow around that rift,” Asaaranda breathed, feeling the lingering terror gripping them from the demon beginning to recede as they looked around at the healed sky.

“The Veil is weaker here than in Haven. And not merely weakened but altered in a way I have not seen,” Solas observed with a touch of wonder and concern in equal measure.

“Something weird’s going on…” Sabraen muttered with suspicion. “Come on. The sooner we meet with Fiona, the sooner we can look into this.”

As the gates opened, one of the Inquisition Scouts came to greet them. “Herald, Ser Knight. It’s good to see you. We’ve spread word that the Inquisition was coming, but you should know that no one here was expecting us,” he informed them with a grim expression.

“No one? Not even Grand Enchanter Fiona?” Sabraen questioned, taken aback. The scout shrugged, “If she was, she hasn’t told anyone. We’ve arranged use of the tavern for negotiations.”

One of the mages also came dashing uphill to greet them, as he breathlessly exclaimed, “Agents of the Inquisition, my apologies! Magister Alexius is in charge now, but hasn’t yet arrived. He’s expected shortly. You can speak with the former Grand Enchanter in the meantime.”

He turned and left to head back into the village, leaving the Inquisition to stand amongst themselves with great confusion. Asaaranda especially was utterly baffled by the strange circumstances. “Magister? What Magister would be down this far South?” Asaaranda questioned with a frown. This wasn’t something Varric had ever told them about in any of his recounts of the Inquisition.

He’d told them of a Venatori’s involvement with the rebel mages, how he’d made the Inquisitor and Dorian disappear into a rift, they’d reappeared a couple of seconds later, and the Venatori had admitted defeat almost instantly. Varric hadn’t mentioned the Venatori was a Magister, nor who the aforementioned Magister was.

Once, Rook might have remembered the business of every single Altus who occupied a seat in the Magisterium. It had once been their duty to remember such things. Yet recalling knowledge that was practically more than a decade old and that was connected to memories they’d practically forced themselves to forget, that much was an impossible feat.

They didn’t like feeling this unsure of themselves, not in this time. It meant being out of control, it meant having to leave events to chance. Rook couldn’t plan around what they could not anticipate, couldn’t make decisions about whether to intervene or let it play out as it had in the past.

With a pit of something akin to dread forming in the base of their stomach, Rook dutifully followed Sabraen in through the gates of Redcliffe and into the village. They passed the various townsfolk and entered the Gull and Lantern tavern.

Lo and behold, inside awaited Grand Enchanter Fiona. It was undeniably her, same short haircut, same long Magi robes – absolutely nothing to indicate that something was amiss until she spoke. “Welcome agents of the Inquisition. What has brought you to Redcliffe?” she asked.

Sabraen frowned. “We’re here because of your invitation back in Val Royeaux.”

“You must be mistaken. I haven’t been to Val Royeaux since before the Conclave,” Fiona replied earnestly, a polite yet genuine confusion evident in her features.

“If it wasn’t you that invited me here, then who was it?” Sabraen insisted.

“I… I don’t know. Now that you say it, I feel strange…” Fiona mumbled confusedly. “Whoever… or, whatever brought you here, the situation has changed. The Free Mages have already pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium.”

Asaaranda’s stomach dropped as horror seized them immediately by the throat. The mages had sold themselves into slavery. Fiona had all but yanked their lives from the Southern Chantry and then willingly handed over their chains to new masters, and for what?

“What the fuck would you do that for?” Asaaranda spat out in fury before they could hold their tongue. “You’ve sold yourself into slavery! Your mages won’t even be considered people in the Imperium, let alone citizens who could ever hope to become praeteri. Are you deluded?!”

Solas cut in before Rook’s tirade could continue, “I understand that you are afraid. But you deserve better than slavery to Tevinter.”

Fiona’s face fell into one of barely concealed despair, yet she forced herself to appear composed nonetheless. “As one indentured to a Magister, I no longer have the authority to speak with you.”

Asaaranda clenched their fists as searing white hot anger filled them to the brim. Even as a last resort, Fiona should have known better. She should not have made that choice for the whole of her people, she had no right to make them into slaves as well.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. “I don’t understand. How could you have sold yourself away like that?” Sabraen insisted once more, trying to get through the Enchanter.

“All hope of peace died with Justinia,” Fiona despaired. “This bargain with Tevinter would not have been my first choice… but we had no choice. We are losing this war. I needed to save as many of my people as I could.”

If not for the squealing sound of a door opening nearby, Rook may very well have snapped at her again. As it was, their rage was held back from Fiona temporarily and instead projected on the man who entered the room.

Magister Gereon Alexius, dressed from head to toe in godawful Tevinter finery, swaggered into the room and declared, “The Southern Mages are under my command.” His eyes fell upon both Sabraen and Asaaranda with intrigue. “And you are the survivors, yes? The ones from the Fade? Interesting…”

Sabraen cleared their throat and inquired, “This alliance… the Grand Enchanter told us that she was ‘indentured’ to a Magister?”

Despite their cool approach, Rook could see Sabraen’s own barely contained fury simmering under the surface of their demeanour.

“Our southern brethren have no legal status in the Imperium, as they were not born citizens of Tevinter, they must work for a period of ten years before gaining full rights. As their protector, I will oversee their work in the Imperium,” Alexius helpfully informed, making Asaaranda hiss under their breath again.

“That’s bullshit,” they muttered, low enough so that the Magister would not hear. “Even if they worked all that time, they would never be granted citizenship. It just doesn’t happen.”

Solas placed a hand on Asaaranda’s shoulder, making them freeze and whip their head around to face him. In his own low whisper, he implored, “Careful. We must not speak of this here, not while the Magister is present. We cannot risk the mages’ lives by potentially offending him.”

Asaaranda gritted their teeth and kept their head down. Damn him, it was true. Every ounce of hatred they held in their heart was swirling in their gut like bile, but they knew that the mages lives were of more importance than verbal justice.

They just hated that it had to come from the Dread Wolf of all people.

“I’m not clear exactly when you negotiated this alliance with Fiona,” Sabraen pressed, somehow still maintaining their polite disposition before the Magister.

“When the Conclave was destroyed, these poor souls faced the brutality of the Templars, who rushed to attack them,” Alexius sighed. “It can only be through divine providence that I arrived when I did.”

Divine providence? What kind of bullshit was that?

“It was certainly very timely,” Fiona agreed with a forceful smile that appeared more like a grimace. Sabraen continued to press, matching Fiona’s expression uncannily. “What does Tevinter gain from taking the rebel mages under its wing?”

“Presently, the Southern Mages are a considerable expense,” Alexius replied. “After they are properly trained, they will join our legion.”

“You said not all of my people would be military!” Fiona interjected with great fervour and protest. “There are children,  those not suited!”

“And one day, I am sure they will be productive citizens of the Imperium. When their debts are paid,” Alexius hissed, shutting Fiona’s objections down immediately.

This was wrong. This was all wrong, why was it happening this way? Asaaranda’s head swam with all the many possibilities that had made this so wrong. They needed to leave before they made a terrible mistake and made this any worse.

Asaaranda rushed out of the tavern without another word, despite the calls after them from the others. Furious tears rushed to their eyes, wracking their entire body with fitful sobs. One never got used to the injustices of the Tevinter Imperium, despite Rook’s best efforts of fighting against them.

Rook had fought tooth and nail to escape their former Master, all those years ago. They couldn’t possibly understand Fiona’s decision to go back on her word and give her people over to slavery when the Inquisition had all but offered her a place in exchange for her help with the Breach.

Yet, as that thought crossed their mind, pieces began to fall into place.

Fiona had approached them in Val Royeaux with a request to meet in Redcliffe, and yet suddenly she had allied with a Tevinter Magister at the Breach well before they met with no memory of their encounter.

It didn’t make any sense. It should’ve…

Asaaranda’s brain came to a screeching halt. It all suddenly made sense, they were living proof of all the ways in which it made sense, Varric’s deliberate omission of details about the happenstance around this very situation made sense.

In order for the Grand Enchanter to have already been allied with the Venatori in Redcliffe and despite earnestly approaching the Inquisition for help in Val Royeaux, there had to be some form of time travel involved. That was the only way that the Venatori could have gotten to her. That explained the rifts outside of Redcliffe acting strangely, evidence of the ripple effect upon the veil from such a magic happening.

If time travel magic existed, someone like Varric who was privy to it and had been told the negative effects of it by someone they trust, would naturally want to keep it secret from the world. That’s why Rook would have had no idea that it had existed prior to now.

If someone else had access to time travel magic, then that person would be their ticket home and back to their own time. It was their chance to go back, and pay Solas back for everything he had done. All Rook needed to do was find them and find a way to get them to give up their secrets.

Thankfully, Asaaranda was pretty damn sure of who they needed to talk to. They just needed to find the right moment to get to him, as well as the right leverage.

Chapter Text

Negotiations between Sabraen Lavellan and Gereon Alexius came to a screeching halt not long after Rook had fled the Gull and Lantern in an utter state. Varric had gone ahead of the rest of the group to seek out Rook and check up on them.

He hadn’t been expecting their somewhat extreme albeit understandable reaction to the Rebel Mages alliance with the Magister, but it did clarify some things in his head that weren’t adding up before.

If it hadn’t been for their use of obviously Tevene words, then he might have passed their actions off as simple compassion or particularly aggressive sympathy. As careful as he was sure Rook had tried to be, they’d freely laid out their cards onto the table for all to see and hadn’t even noticed.

He had understood why they had tried to hide such a thing about themselves. The Chantry had enough sore spots with an elf claiming the title of the Herald of Andraste, to add a runaway qunari slave to that mix as the Maker’s Chosen felt like it was steering too close into the ‘Heresy of Shartan’ territory.  

As if the Inquisition needed another reason to tempt the living clerics of the Southern Chantry into enacting an Exalted March on them all once this was done... Aside from that, not a single slave made it out of Tevinter without some kind of deeply horrible tragedy or history of facing abuse. Having that suddenly become every Tom, Dick, and Harry’s personal fascination would’ve pushed anyone over the edge.

Varric found Rook not too far from the tavern; they had just stumbled into a little unoccupied corner by the docks. “You alright, Rook?” he called out, snapping them out of their fugue-like state. “Do you need to head back to camp?”

“No! No, I mean… I’m fine. Just a little worked up. I’ll be fine,” Rook insisted. “How’d it go with the Magister? Did we get the mages back?”

Varric shook his head. “Negotiations were cut short when his son came over and all but stumbled into Elfroot’s arms. Alexius couldn’t rush to his side fast enough.”

“His son?” Asaaranda asked, eyes lighting up as the opportunity of a lifetime all but presented itself on a silver platter. This had to be their angle.

“He gave us a note, asking us to find him in the Chantry,” Varric explained. “If there’s something bigger going on, there’s a chance that Felix can tell us what.”

It had to be about the time travel. This was perfect. Rook picked themselves up from the floor, brushed the dirt from their robes. “Then we should get going. We may not get another chance like this again.”

“You sure you’re up for it, Rook?” Varric asked with gentle concern. “You look a little rough around the edges still. The others will understand if you need rest.”

“I’m really fine, Varric,” Asaaranda replied, with a forced grin. “I can rest once we’ve sorted things out with the Magister’s son. Come on.”

Not believing Rook one bit, but unwilling to push the issue, Varric followed behind them and up towards the Redcliffe Chantry. He figured that if he made himself available to talk to, that the kid may eventually open up.  

Meanwhile, Asaaranda had barely noticed Varric’s concern at all and had instead just brushed him off in order to focus on the plans ahead of them. Alexius was their chance to fix all of this, and his son – Felix, Varric had called him? – was exactly what they needed to grasp that chance.

They were going to go back home, go back to their own time, and put things right. Solas wasn’t going to get away with this.

Eventually, Rook and Varric arrived to the top of the hill. Sabraen, Cassandra, and Solas had already made their way inside, given the sounds of what seemed to be yet another rift and the hisses of demons being culled.

Varric armed himself with his crossbow, Asaaranda wielded their staff, and the two of them burst through the Chantry doors. Awaiting them on the other side was indeed another rift, several demons, their friends from the Inquisition, and one other figure.

Magister Dorian Pavus, founder of the Shadow Dragons, in the flesh.

That same uncanny feeling washed over them. It was Dorian Pavus, undoubtedly. Even ten years younger, he still carried that particular refined swagger and glorious moustache that they had come to attribute to the Magister.

He wielded fire like a swordsman wields a blade, as the flames would dance around him in a waltz of blazing glory to bring forth great destruction. He was a force of nature of devastating proportions, greatly skilled at his craft and he looked damned good while doing it.

It was the first time Rook had actually seen Dorian Pavus fight, despite hearing for years about his capabilities as a mage. One couldn’t deny that the altus’ undoubtedly extensive education had produced a truly exemplary spellcaster.

It occurred to Rook suddenly that they hadn’t seen him since before the dragon attacks on Minrathous and Treviso, which felt like an utter kick to the stomach. When Minrathous had fallen to Venatori control and the Shadow Dragons scattered to avoid execution, Dorian had retreated into hiding and had ended all contact with the Veilguard to try and recoup losses.

Asaaranda forced themselves to focus on the fight ahead, rather than their grief and mistakes. It wouldn’t help anyone to falter and linger in what they had done wrong, not when they had the chance to fix everything almost within their grasp.

As the final demon fell and Sabraen surged forward to seal the rift, Rook watched as the magister turned around on his heel and cocked his head in curiosity. “Fascinating. How does that work, exactly?” he questioned, yet immediately following Sabraen’s hesitation, he continued with some mirth, “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes.”

Sabraen shook their head in exasperation and amusement. “Mind telling us who you are?” Despite their relative playfulness, their stance hadn’t quite relaxed. If anything, they were staring at him like he was a predator about to strike.

“Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?” he greeted with a bow.

Cassandra narrowed her eyes at him. “Another Tevinter. Be cautious with this one.” This was a source of great amusement for Dorian, as he chuckled heartily in response. “Suspicious friends you have here. Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable – as I’m sure you can imagine,” he explained.

Asaaranda lit up briefly, before they had the sense to recompose themselves. If using Alexius didn’t pan out, trying Dorian was always an option. Not ideal, considering how he had become Sabraen’s best friend in the past version of the Inquisition. It didn’t allow for a ton of error, especially since it could draw more attention if they fucked things up with Dorian compared to Alexius.

Still… if it came down to it, he was an option.

“You were Alexius’ student? Are you also a Magister?” Sabraen interrogated, maintaining their grip on their staff with an unerringly determined stare in his direction. Dorian sighed dramatically, “Alright, I’m going to say this once. I am a mage from Tevinter, but not a member of the Magisterium. I know southerners use the terms interchangeably, but that only makes you sound like barbarians.”

A grimace forced itself onto Asaaranda’s expression before they could stop it. They knew it was a version of Dorian that was ten years younger than the one that they knew, but there was a certain arrogance about him that was so stereotypically ‘Qarinus Highblood’ that it made Rook want to crawl out of their skin.

It was truly hard to believe that this was the same man who went on to found the Shadow Dragons. He seemed just like any other altus that they had ever encountered, just minus the unchecked aggression.

“I was expecting Felix to be here,” Sabraen hummed with some amount of suspicion.

“I’m sure he’s on his way. He was to give you the note, then meet us here after ditching his father,” Dorian reassured.

“Is there something wrong with Felix?” Rook interjected, trying their best to not sound too overly curious. “With the way Alexius rushed to him when he pretended to be faint…”

Dorian shrugged. “He’s had some lingering illness for months. Felix is an only child, and Alexius is being a mother hen, most likely.”

That felt almost too easy. That had to be something Rook could use to get to Alexius. It made guilt churn in the pit of Asaaranda’s stomach somewhat, the very prospect of manipulating a father by using his own illness-struck child against him, but it was for the greater good, surely.

None of them would have any future at all, if Rook couldn’t get back to their own time to stop Solas. It was one poor act in the face of saving the entire world.

Sabraen’s suspicion of Dorian had subsided slightly, as they looked at him and asked. “Forgive me for my suspicion, Ser Pavus, but if Alexius is your mentor, why would you come meet us here exactly?”

This question seemed to baffle Dorian immensely. “You must understand the danger you are in, yes? The rebel mages being claimed out from underneath you, as if by magic. That must strike you as concerning, surely.”

Sabraen frowned. “How did you know that?”

“Alexius distorted time itself to get to the mages before you, just before Divine Justinia was killed at the Conclave,” Dorian explained. “Now, the effects of such a spell have begun to unravel the fabric of reality itself. That combined with the Breach could have disastrous implications.”

Shit.

“Unravel it how? What exact implications are you implying?” Asaaranda interrupted, the slightest touch of panic entering their tone.

“You all saw how that rift acted. The way it sped some things up and slowed others down? It’s not the first such rift, nor will it be the last if Alexius’ magic is allowed to go unchecked. Small distortions of time may be the start, but if things truly progress out of control… we may see longer range time travel come to fruition as well – weeks, maybe months or years into the past or future,” Dorian described with a grim expression upon his face.

Well, that certainly explained something about how Rook had gotten here, even if it also added more questions than it answered. Alexius invented time travel magic, it started winding out of control, it had apparently wound enough out of control to reach an effect ten years into the future, and that was how Rook made it back ten years into their past.

So, this wasn’t any act of divine providence – thank the Maker – it was a freak accident. Like most of the things that happened to them.

“You’re asking me to take a lot on faith alone,” Sabraen frowned with a slightly more relaxed stance about them but a still significant amount of scepticism still evident.

“I helped him to develop this magic, though it was all theoretical at the time of my apprenticeship. I know what I’m talking about,” Dorian insisted. “What is stumping me is why he’s done it. A few hundred southern mages in exchange for the destruction of time?”

“He didn’t do it for them,” another voice called from the back of the Chantry, signalling the arrival of the infamous Felix.

He was definitively Alexius’ son, given the similarity in their features, and the finery that he wore evoking the same feeling as Alexius’, but he seemed… off. Rook couldn’t put their finger on it, but he looked truly awful in a way that they could only ascribe as deathly exhausted.

“There you are! Is he getting suspicious?” Dorian called.

“No, but I shouldn’t have played the illness card. I thought he’d never let me get out of there,” Felix sighed. “My father’s joined a Tevinter supremacist cult, the Venatori. Whatever he’s done, it was for them to be able to get to the Herald and the Knight.”

“Both of us?” Asaaranda exclaimed. “Not just Sabraen?”

Felix nodded. “The Venatori are obsessed with the both of you, but I don’t know why. Probably because you were the only survivors of the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

“No offense, Felix, but… why tell us this? He’s your father,” Sabraen pointed out.

“It’s because he is my father that I’m asking you to intervene. This isn’t like him. Cults, time magic, imperium supremacists… We love our country as much as anyone, but this sort of thing is too far,” Felix insisted with a morose look about him.

After a moment of scanning between both Dorian and Felix, Sabraen’s body language had finally settled into a more open and accepting stance. “Right. Okay. So, there’s a cult that wants to get to me and Rook somehow through Alexius’ time magic. What are you hoping we’ll achieve by you telling us about these ‘Venatori’?” they asked, firmly.

“Stopping him from creating another hole in the fabric of the world, ideally. The Breach is enough of a problem,” Dorian replied. “As much as I’d like to stick around Redcliffe to try and deal with him myself, keeping him unaware of my presence here is imperative until we’ve an actual plan. I was hoping we might arrange something together.”

Sabraen shot Asaaranda an inquisitive look, seeking some kind of opinion. Rook just nodded, hoping to indicate that cooperation with the mage was the infinitely safer option than allowing this whole situation to run wild.

It was also their only chance at getting home and fixing this mess, but Sabraen didn’t know that.

“Very well,” Sabraen decided after a moment of silent deliberation. “Our spymaster will be in touch. We’ll let you know when we’re ready to deal with Alexius.”

“Thank you, Herald,” Dorian said with sincerity. “Until we see each other again.” He bowed formally and began to head towards the back exit of the Chantry. “Oh, and Felix? Try not to get yourself killed,” Dorian called out as he went.

Felix shot back, “There are worse things than dying, Dorian,” as he too departed.

A shiver ran down Rook’s spine in response. That felt all too pertinent to be an offhanded comment. Fuck, if Felix was dying and that was going to be what they had to exploit in order to save the world…

Maker forgive them, but they would be no perfect hero.

**

Despite Asaaranda being fairly certain that the meeting with Dorian had sealed the deal in Sabraen’s mind to choose the mages over the templars, they were still dithering somewhat on making the actual decision.

The Templars were highly organised warriors who were trained to deal with out of control magic as one collective unit. They could suppress the Breach to allow the mark to operate at its lower capacity.

Plus, there was nothing to indicate that they could not do both – recruit the Templars and stop Alexius, even if Asaaranda knew better. Corypheus hadn’t made an appearance yet, but it was almost certain to happen any day now, and Rook was determined to make it back to their own time before he did.

It was no surprise that upon their return that Sabraen sought out the opinions of their entire inner circle. It had grown again in number since meeting the mages in Redcliffe, to include a Grey Warden, Blackwall, and a mercenary captain, The Iron Bull.

Blackwall was fine enough, even if he was absolutely nothing like Davrin or any of the other wardens that Asaaranda had grown close to. Rook hadn’t been there themselves for his recruitment, but Sabraen later recounted that they’d stumbled across the man conscripting some of the locals and teaching them how to defend themselves from bandits. Nothing unusual, Rook supposed.

The Iron Bull was every bit as intimidating as he’d been described in the stories, towering over Asaaranda despite them being of considerable height themselves. At first glance, one might have thought him to be the thick, unintelligent battering ram of a man that he presented himself as, but Rook knew different.

He was one of, if not the biggest, risk to Asaaranda’s whole schtick. A Ben-Hassrath with a few decades of experience under his belt was nothing to sneeze at. If he noticed anything that indicated who Rook truly was, it could have proven to be their undoing.

Fortunately, Sabraen was utterly taken in by him, which worked out for Rook. The Dalish Herald had quickly become a distraction for him; on more than one occasion Rook had walked past them both in the midst of a very flirtatious conversation.  

The more time Iron Bull spent with Sabraen, the less time he had to observe Asaaranda and potentially expose the cracks in their story. They couldn’t be sure what exactly he would find, but if it put their plans at risk, then it was too much to put at stake.

With the meeting about whether to go for the mages or templars as allies approaching ever faster by the minute, Rook knew they couldn’t risk it all falling apart before they had a chance to try and get home. If the Iron Bull noticed anything and said anything to anyone, it could be the difference between success and failure.

As Rook contemplated the many things that they faced ahead of them, Sabraen Lavellan had finished making the rounds of Haven to speak with the others and eventually had arrived to Asaaranda’s side with a cheerful greeting. “Lethallen! Have you got a moment?”

“Of course,” Rook replied. “What can I do for you, Sabraen?”

The elf smiled bashfully. “Our next meeting, we’re planning to finally decide whether to approach the Templars or Mages for their help with the Breach. I’ve been asking around about what people think the best course of action is and why, to get a good picture of our options. Care to share your thoughts?”

If this same question had been asked of them a mere two weeks ago, Rook would have answered with indifference. Yet with the knowledge they now possessed, to say anything other than what they truly felt in their heart… It would have felt like a betrayal of themselves and of the duty they had to fulfill.

Asaaranda knew that Sabraen was empathetic, yet practical. They would need to give the Herald an answer that appealed to both of their primary interests when making leadership decisions.

“In my mind? The only choice that makes sense is to choose the mages,” Rook decided with little room for argument. “The alternative is to leave all their most vulnerable people to death or slavers. They’re not like the Templars who have been trained to hunt and kill from birth. I mean, you heard Fiona, they’ve got children amongst them. They need someone to protect them. Why not the Herald of Andraste?” Asaaranda proposed.

Sabraen’s eyes lit up in contemplation and so Rook pressed forth. “Plus, the mages would provide you more than enough power to properly seal the Breach,” they added. “And time travel magic sounds pretty awful to leave in the hands of our enemy, does it not?”

The Herald hummed. “You make some good points. I like where your head’s at, Rook.”

“Happy to help as ever, Sabraen,” Asaaranda replied. “And hey, if you need someone to have your back at Redcliffe, I’m there.”

Sabraen chuckled warmly. “I’ll keep that in mind. See you tomorrow morning in the war room, Rook.”

The very next day, the decision had been made, a plan had been formulated, and off they went to Redcliffe to confront Gereon Alexius.

**

Solas, Varric, and The Iron Bull were the ones who had been decided on to head to Redcliffe under the guise of accepting Alexius’ invitation. The Iron Bull had taken up the role of bodyguard for both the Herald and Asaaranda, while Varric and Solas also came with them as a ‘safety in numbers’ kind of assurance and to serve as an additional distraction.

While Leliana’s spies crept into the castle, so too would Dorian, and they would all arrive to take out Alexius’ guards and seize the castle without Alexius ever noticing. They just had to let the pleasantries drag out long enough for them to get through.

“Ser Rook, Ser Lavellan! How lovely it is to see you and your friends again,” Alexius greeted with faux warmth. “Now that you are here, I am sure we can reach an agreement that is equitable for all parties.”

Sabraen flashed him a forced yet polite smile, as did Asaaranda. “I would like to include the Grand Enchanter in these talks of ours, Magister Alexius,” the Herald insisted. “Although she has pledged her service to you, many of the mages still look up to her for guidance, the way I hear it.”

Fiona, who had been standing off to the side forlornly, lit up at this and blurted out, “I would be grateful for the opportunity to speak for my people, Magister.”

Alexius wrinkled his nose in displeasure, though apparently did not find it in him to protest the assertion nor the undermining of his authority. “Very well. Let us speak of the Breach then. You need mages, which I have and am willing to provide for the right compensation. What will you give in exchange?”

Every second that passed made it clear that the tolerance for senseless pleasantries and mindless formalities was quickly wearing thin on both sides. Felix had begun to wriggle restlessly from where he stood beside his Father, a sentiment which Asaaranda echoed with their own anxious energy.

“We have many great resources – contacts all around Thedas that can procure you anything you could imagine. Name your price and it is yours,” Sabraen proposed coolly, their proclamation echoing throughout the throne room like a challenge.

“There is little in Thedas that I do not already possess, Herald,” Alexius rebutted with clear disdain and patience worn out.

Felix turned to his father with a dejected sigh and admitted, “Enough of this. They know what’s happening here, Father.”

Immediately, Alexius’ suspicion and ire turned onto his son as he snapped, “Felix? What have you done?”

If Asaaranda focused, they could hear the barely perceptible sounds of footsteps swiftly yet silently rushing throughout the hall into various positions. Leliana’s spies were there, it would be any second now.

“Your son is concerned you’ve involved yourself in something terrible, Magister,” Sabraen insisted, continually maintaining the façade of complete diplomacy. “He approached me for help out of worry for you.”

“Do you think you can turn my son against me?” Alexius snapped. “You, a Dalish elf with their Tal-Vashoth protector, bearing a powerful mark that you do not understand and could not ever possibly hope to understand. You, who are a child playing at divinity, would try to manipulate my boy to your own ends?”

Vicious, bitter vitriol oozed from Alexius’ entire frame as he continued, “You are nothing but a mistake.”

“If you know so much, enlighten us, then,” Sabraen challenged, meeting Alexius’ glare unflinchingly. “What is this mark that you claim to know so well?”

“It belongs to your betters. That is all you could ever hope to comprehend,” he hissed.

Felix snapped in response, “Maker, Father, listen to yourself! Do you have any idea what you sound like?”

Another voice cut in, oozing with disappointment, “He sounds like what every southern nation expects us to be – villainous and vicious.”

Alexius expression fell even further, if that were possible. “Dorian. Even you… I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned your back on me, on the Elder One. He will bring the Imperium back to its glory days, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.”

Ugh. Asaaranda forced themselves to hold their tongue. They could not speak up or disparage him, lest they lose their opportunity to strike. If they made themselves a target now, all could truly be lost.

“You and I talked about avoiding such a terrible thing, once, Alexius,” Dorian recalled. “Why would you ever give into such… anachronistic ideals of what the Imperium could be?”

Felix pushed further, “It doesn’t have to be like this, Father. We can leave the mages to the Inquisition to fight the Breach and go back home. Please.”

“No!” Alexius retorted desperately. “It is the only way to save you. He is the only one who can save you. If I undo the mistake at the temple—”

“I am going to die!” Felix snapped. “You need to accept that.”

This was their angle, this was their moment, Rook had to strike now before it was too late. They had nothing to guarantee Felix would be saved, nothing to confirm what Felix had, which made the guilt eat them up infinitely more, but they couldn’t afford to dither even a second longer. “What if there was another way—” they began.

A groan sounded out from the sides of the throne room, as Alexius’ guards dropped dead one-by-one. The moment had been snatched from their hands as the Inquisition spies and scouts poured in and seized control of the castle.

No, no, no, not when they were so close. “Alexius—” they tried again, only to be interrupted by Sabraen this time. “Your men are dead. You have nothing left to bargain. Tell me why we shouldn’t just kill you and take the mages anyway.”

Shit, shit, shit, Asaaranda cursed silently. This was only going to progress wildly out of hand if the Inquisition killed him. They would have no way back if this got any further. “Sabraen, wait,” Asaaranda tried to warn.

But it was too late. “You are a mistake! You should never have existed!” Alexius declared as he ripped off the necklace he wore from around his neck and engulfed it in a tar-like energy, creating what was unmistakably the rift of his time magic aimed at the Herald.

A rapid fire series of events followed. Dorian cried out, he instinctually struck against Alexius’ bubbling spell with his own powers, a bright flash of green followed by all-consuming darkness engulfed the room and Sabraen. In the split seconds between moments, Rook had a decision to make.

Either option could risk them never coming back to their own time. Either option could spell doom upon all the world, an absolute certainty that Solas would succeed in tearing down the veil. Yet either of them could be their ticket home, and send them back to their own damn time to face Solas once and for all.

If they stayed or they followed the Herald… There was no good or bad choice, neither would be more correct than the other – there were only choices. Inaction itself was a choice, and the longer that Rook stared at the scene before them hopelessly, the quicker that the choice would be made for them.

Before they could even really understand what they were doing, Asaaranda leapt to the Herald’s side and grasped them by the shoulders tightly.

And in a flash, they were gone.

Chapter Text

Asaaranda reached up to grasp their forehead with a groan. Their damnable headache had returned, the pain rushing from their horn through their temple with a persistent throb. Blearily, Rook adjusted to the low levels of light and began to observe their surroundings.

They were in a flooded basement, dimly lit with sputtering torches, along with several iron bars trapping them in. Yet what caught their eye was the lingering glow that crept along the walls and then surged through the floor in a grotesque explosion.

Red lyrium. It seeped into every single crevice and crack available, bleeding into all material both organic and inorganic. The eerie glowing light from each crystal seemed to pulsate in a rhythmic drum beat, barely perceptible yet ever present like a hum being carried on the wind.

Sabraen and Dorian were slumped against the wall, evidently unconscious. Rook knelt at their sides and checked that they were still alive, which they fortunately were, but neither of them stirred or gave any other response.

“Damn it,” they cursed under their breath.

They couldn’t afford to stick around and wait for them both to wake. If this was their only opportunity to get to Solas and stop him without having to worry about the Inquisition, then they needed to take it. Rook rose to their feet and headed towards the bars of the cage. Thank the Maker for the Shadow Dragons for teaching them how to lockpick doors.

In a few quick movements, the door swung open and they easily slipped out of the basement. They needed to figure out where they were, when they were, and to try and find Solas.

“Hey!” A voice barked as they approached the stairs, causing them to whip their head around. Two men dressed in armour, adorned with a triangular helmet and snake imagery had made themselves known from their previous concealment amongst the shadows and armed themselves with swords. “You’re not going anywhere, oxman!”

Asaaranda rolled their eyes and groaned, “I don’t have time for this, fucking venatori!” Despite this, they also pulled the staff from their back and armed themselves against attack. The rightmost Venatori yelled as he raised his sword aloft and charged forth at them in a slash, which Rook quickly blocked and used as an opportunity to sweep the venatori’s feet out from under him.

He fell with an unceremonious bang, and so they pursued the opening in his defences to stab him in the chest with their staff blade. Yet as they did so, Rook quickly found themselves stuck, as the blade would not part from the venatori’s body no matter how hard they tugged.

The one on the left nicked them at their shoulder, slicing through the fabric of their robes to expose their skin to his blade. With a hiss, Rook stumbled back and elected to just leave their staff rather than risk their life, and they leapt backwards.

Following a deep calming breath, Asaaranda let out a veritable storm of magic as they shoved as much energy behind a singular ice spell as they could and directed it at the standing attacker.

In an instant, he froze into one solid mass and was rendered unable to move to attack. With their bare fists glowing with energy, Rook punched through the ice and lit up the remaining venatori soldier with a crackle of lightning.

In a flash, he too was dead.

Adrenaline coursed through their veins, the effects of immediately hurtling into fight-or-flight mode having taken their toll on Rook’s thinking, and so they did not look back or move to retrieve their staff.

Instead, they surged forward, intent on finding answers. What year was it? Had they gone back to their own time, if so, was it too late to stop Solas or could they finally go and give that damned asshole exactly what was coming to him?

They opened the first door that they could find, entering a room filled with cages and ever more present red lyrium. There was so much of it that it was unnerving, but they forced themselves to enter and seek out whatever answers that they could.

As Rook approached the cage on the farthest left and methodically scanned over it, their eyes fell upon a particularly prominent patch of crystal. Their heart dropped and their lungs constricted of all air all at once as the harrowing sight fully registered in their mind.

That was lyrium growing out of a person, and…no, it couldn’t be, yet they knew all at once that it was. Asaaranda stared at the protruding spikes of lyrium with utter despair and cried out, “…Harding? Harding!”

“Ser Knight… Rook, Maker, is that really you?” she dithered, whimpers echoing in a chorus of a thousand resonant voices. Every single square inch of her body was pierced through with hundreds of crystalline growths, engulfing her into the glowing stone like it intended to consume her.

Asaaranda leapt into action, rushed to the bars of Lace’s cage and began to break through the lock on her cage with a fearsome determination. “I’m gonna get you out. Just hang on, amatus!” they declared desperately, tears rushing to their eyes.

“No! No, don’t touch me, it’ll grow on you too!” Harding shrieked, using what little control she had over her body to flinch away from Asaaranda’s desperate reach. “This stuff, it grows in you like a disease. You can’t… you can’t become like this too.”

They were powerless to do anything but follow her request, even as their heart screamed in joyless longing and desperate agony. Their hand retreated back to their side and they forced themselves to step back.

“I can’t just leave you here,” Rook sobbed weakly. “I can’t… I can’t. Not again. Please, let me do something. I can find a way to save you.”

“It’s too late for me,” Harding insisted wearily. “I don’t know if you’re Maker-sent or what anymore, but I have to believe you’re here for a reason. There’s something else you have to do, Ser Knight.”

Asaaranda choked on their tears, as they did their best to swallow any sobs as the realisation hit them dead on. “‘Knight?’ That’s… the time rift didn’t take me back. Venhedis, I can’t be back in the right place if you know that stupid fucking title.”

They had leapt through time itself again for nothing. If Alexius was dead or worse, then the world may already have fallen and there would be nothing they could do about it.

“‘Time rift?’ What… what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Harding coughed weakly, morbid desperation for answers filling her eyes in response to their mutterings. “Rook?”

“Alexius has time travel magic, he used it against the Herald, Dorian, and I,” Asaaranda explained with a weary moan. “Time travel is real and it sent me forward in time, but everything is wrong and this isn’t how any of this is supposed to go.”

“If he sent you forward… does that mean you can go back?” Harding pleaded, “Oh, Maker, please, you have to go back. You have to fix this, please, Rook. You don’t understand what we’ve suffered.”

Asaaranda longed to reach back through the cage to hold Harding, but they held themselves back with sheer force of will. “Solas will pay for this, Lace, I promise you.”

Harding frowned, as a look of genuine confusion appeared across her face. “’Solas?’ The elven apostate? What does he have to do with any of this—”

A loud series of banging noises from downstairs cut Harding’s trail of thought short. “Damn it all, we’re running out of time. You have to go. Please, try and go back, save us all and make sure none of this never happens.”

“I’m going to,” Asaaranda vowed. “I’m going to fix this, I’m going to save you, I swear it.”

Though leaving her behind felt like yet another impossible task, Asaaranda forced themselves to walk away from Harding and rush in search of Solas. Flustered and frustrated tears fell down their cheeks in a steady rhythm, but they forced themselves to keep moving, even as the lyrium-addled visage they’d left behind began to combine with the fleeting memories of their own Harding as she fell to Ghilan’nain’s attack.

Their head was pounding with blood, a migraine of unfathomable proportions having clearly decided that now was the best time to make an appearance.

Rook rushed through the many passageways and winding staircases of the castle, searching for a way out of the dungeons. Eventually they surged through the right door and out into the courtyard where they came upon a terrifying sight.

The entirety of the sky had been swallowed wholly by the Breach, for not an inch of cloud nor blue remained in the viscous sea of swirling emerald coloured energy that blanketed the world in its glory. Physical or Fade, there was no distinction, all of it was one entire state of being that shuddered and moaned with agony as it bled magic and demons like a stuck pig.

Yet in amongst the undeniable plague of demons and magic and red lyrium lied a greater evil – the unmistakable rot of Blight.

With no veil to hold the Blight back, the severed nightmares of the titans had unleashed into the world and slowly begun to sink into every crevice of the known world, drowning them in despair and rage and grief and horror.

“This cannot be the world you wanted,” Asaaranda whispered with a horrified hiss. “This… Dread Wolf take us all, this cannot be what you hoped for, Solas.”

Far too many demons and rifts lingered throughout the courtyard for them to tackle on their own, and there was no possibility in which they could sneak by, so Rook retreated back into the dungeons to start their search again.

They slipped by as many venatori as possible, not trusting their ability to take on anymore men by themselves in combat than they had already. Eventually, they found themselves slipping into one of the many rooms full of cells again, just hoping to find anyone or anything with more information about when the hell this was.

Lo and behold, glowing a brilliant red was exactly the man that they were looking for. Blanketed in crystals, but not yet utterly consumed by them, Solas turned to regard Rook with a cock of his head and an exclamation, “You’re alive? We saw you die!”

Asaaranda stared at him in disbelief, words escaping them temporarily. “…Solas.”

This has all but confirmed he was not the same Solas as the one who trapped them in the Fade. He would have said anything else, he would have made excuses, not just exclaim the obvious. Between Lace remembering them as the ‘Knight of the Maker’ and this… It all but confirmed they hadn’t gone far enough forward.

Yet that didn’t explain Solas’ current predicament.

Solas became frantic, desperate for answers as he implored, “What about Sabraen? The Herald, are they—”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Asaaranda interrupted, a mixture of something like utter horror and sadistic glee filling their every crevice. “You. You’re here.”

Solas’ expression grew disturbed. “Rook? Please, if there is a chance—”

A wildly inappropriate yet hysterical giggle leapt from Rook’s throat, interrupting Solas in his stead. “I can’t believe this. After everything… How did this happen?”

With a frown, Solas began to explain, “Alexius served a master known as the Elder One. After you and the Herald disappeared, he and his followers descended upon Thedas with a demon army. With no one to the close the Breach, and nobody to oppose him, the Elder One took Thedas for his own in a single year.”

Maker’s breath, all of this hadn’t even been because of Solas’ attempt to tear down the veil. It had been Corypheus that was responsible for all of the red lyrium and the Breach getting wildly out of control. It had only been a year since the beginning of the Inquisition, and Corypheus had already conquered the entirety of Thedas.

All while Solas did what, exactly? Dithered in yet another prison with no hope of escape? He had baited Asaaranda into taking his place within the Prison of Regret, and yet one made of metal and stone was enough to confine him?

Rook didn’t believe it for a second.

“Nobody to oppose him, huh,” Asaaranda scoffed. “’The Elder One’ takes Thedas, and there was nobody to oppose him?” Frustration appeared instantly across Solas’ expression, but Rook would not let him speak. “After all that you were… Out of everything you’ve ever faced, Corypheus is your undoing?”

Solas’ frustration fell away, replaced only by utter bafflement and sudden yet undeniable horror, “Excuse me?”

Asaaranda continued, “If I’m remembering right, he was your fault too, wasn’t he? The Breach, the Mark… It’s just one thing after another with you. How many more mistakes could you possibly make before it becomes a pattern, Solas? Even now, after becoming a red lyrium addled statue, do you think that you truly understand what is best?”

The elf glowered at them in response, unable or unwilling to do much more to defend himself than a simple muttering under his breath. “Banal nadas.”

“And you have no idea who I really am,” Rook realised with a horrified smile and a shake of their head. “None of what I’ve endured even matters because in this time, in this version of reality, none of it ever even happened and you. don’t. know. who. I. am.”

“If you are a spirit attempting to break me, there is no point,” Solas rebutted weakly. “The world is lost. You will be denied your purpose when the Blight consumes us all. Find comfort in your friends and loved ones while you can.”

How the mighty had fallen. The Dread Wolf finally cowed after becoming less than a mutt at the feet of an enraged dragon. “I am no spirit, just another you’ve wronged,” Asaaranda denied with a resentful shrug. “But I feel no need to explain myself to you, not when you’ve been defanged like this. Just know this much, when I fix all of this, you are going to get exactly what you deserve from me.”

That blow to his ego was enough to light the fires in Solas’ stomach as he jeered, “And how, exactly, do you plan to ‘fix’ this, Rook?”

“By getting Alexius to send us back to our own time, I expect,” a melodic voice interrupted with an ironic amount of cheer, belonging to none other than Dorian Pavus himself, followed closely behind by Sabraen Lavellan.

Rook forced themselves to strip away the animosity and ferocious disposition they had shown Solas, and instead gave a sigh of relief. “Dorian. Thank fuck you two both made it. I wasn’t sure if it was only me.”

“Well, we knew you were here, given that you left this behind,” Sabraen said with a sheepish expression as they handed Rook’s staff to them. “You alright?”

“I’m fine. You think Alexius can send us back?” Asaaranda shrugged Sabraen off to turn to Dorian.

“I’m certain of it,” Dorian insisted. “Once we go back, we can make certain that this future never happens.”

Solas lit up, his expression no longer dire, as he added, “You could revert the events of the last year, save us from this abomination of an existence. You must do so.”

“We will, Solas,” Sabraen promised, earnestly. “Do you know of any others that are here?”

“I am not certain what has become of them,” Solas admitted with a slight bow, showing no signs of his and Rook’s previous conflict in his face. “But if Varric and Iron Bull are still here, I expect they will be in the dungeons as well.”

“Then let’s get moving,” Sabraen declared. “The sooner we go back, the sooner Alexius can answer for all of this.” With their order of operations decided, Solas dutifully joined the rest of the party to begin the search for other survivors, as well as to seek out Alexius.

He would be the only way to fix all of this, after all.

**

Redcliffe had been exhausting, but not a total loss.

Alexius was taken into custody by the Inquisition and had been promptly sent into the dungeons of Haven to be dealt with properly at a later date. The mages had been kicked out of Redcliffe by King Alistair and thus had no choice but to agree to an alliance with the Inquisition. Fortunately, Sabraen had been both reasonable and merciful, and had offered Fiona and her rebels their total freedom. In the eyes of the Inquisition, all of the mages were now equals.

It would have felt world-shatteringly profound for the Southerners. Asaaranda had just been relieved that none of the mages were made into slaves for Corypheus.

In all honesty, the reminder that Corypheus was a problem to deal with as well was… disheartening, to say the least. Somehow Solas’ schemes always seemed to result in bigger villains popping out of places to become a bigger problem than he was. First, Corypheus, then Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain.

More than that realisation, they were processing the images they had seen in the strange future with some amount of difficulty. Solas had postured and presented himself as a knowledgeable god in Rook’s time for so long, that seeing him reduced to fodder for lyrium was…

Jarring didn’t adequately describe it.

They had wanted to confront him again for so long, and yet seeing him like that meant that it didn’t feel as cathartic as they had hoped. Their own Solas would have known exactly what Asaaranda was getting into his business for, and he would have at least felt something from it. The one from that reality had been so out of his mind that he thought Rook a spirit sent to mock him. It seemed that even in another weird version of history not their own, they would be denied the catharsis of revenge.

Putting Solas aside, Rook had been trying to take advantage of their knowledge of Haven’s guard rotations to try and get in to see Alexius, but ever since they returned from Redcliffe, they had kept experiencing interference from all of the various new people around Haven.

Madame Vivienne de Fer herself had pulled them aside for a chat about their thoughts on how best to restore order after the Breach was sealed. By the time they had evaded her questions, their gap had closed and they had been unable to get to Alexius without risking getting caught.

It was like the universe knew that Alexius wasn’t to be disturbed. Perhaps speaking with Dorian would have been the safer choice, Rook pondered. They figured they could at least talk with him about the time travel on a theoretical level. It would be risky to try and recreate it themselves, but honestly the entire process of being here was risky and they needed some kind of a plan to action, or else they would die before they could stop Solas themselves.

With that in mind, Rook headed throughout Haven to seek Dorian Pavus out. He had conveniently decided to spend his time near Solas, on the other side of Haven from where Asaaranda usually spent their days. Thinking nothing of it, they began their approach when they spotted him in conversation with a surprisingly upset looking Sabraen. It all became clear why, when Dorian declared, “Some slaves are treated poorly, true. But do you honestly think inescapable poverty is better?”

Asaaranda all but short-circuited as the words left Dorian’s lips. “Venhedis, you can’t be serious,” they blurted out with a hiss.

Sabraen and Dorian whipped their heads around to face Asaaranda, stood on the stairs several feet away from the two of them.

“You think slavery is preferable?” Rook gawked at Dorian in absolute disbelief. “I’m sorry, did we not just save the mages from Alexius’ enslavement for a reason? In what version of reality, is slavery ever just ‘poor treatment?’”

This could not be the same man who founded the Shadow Dragons. To not only be apathetic towards the reality of slavery, but to give an endorsement of it? How the hell did a man like that ever go on to found one of the biggest anti-slavery organisations in the history of the Imperium?

It didn’t make any sense, Rook insisted to themselves.

Dorian turned to Rook with an uncomfortable and slightly irritable look. “I’m not saying it’s not a complex situation, Rook.”

“I find it rather simple, actually,” Asaaranda shot back. “The Imperium and its culture of enslavement is vile. What the South has – alienages and slums, nobody is denying that is bad either – but to say that enslavement is a better alternative speaks to your ignorance, Altus.”

“I don’t know what it’s like to be a slave, true. I never thought about it until I saw how different it was here,” he defended with an honest shrug. “But I suspect you don’t know what it’s like either, nor should you believe that every tale of Tevinter excess is the norm.”

Asaaranda shook their head in disapproval and scoffed, “Even living in a world where I don’t understand exactly being a slave is like, Dorian, I don’t need to be one to understand that people hardly exaggerate about their experiences of abuse that you’re currently downplaying.”

Unbeknownst to Rook, their outburst had attracted significant attention around Haven. Several interested parties had begun to creep in to observe them and their heated conversation, just out of sight of them all.

Dorian sighed, somewhat haughtily, “It isn’t my intention to downplay it. Neither am I advocating for it, which you would have heard if you had been privy to the rest of the conversation rather than walking up in the middle of it.”

Asaaranda gritted their teeth. “Maybe don’t shout from the rooftops about how little you understand your most vulnerable countrymen, then.”

“Rook, Dorian, enough,” Sabraen interjected with a hiss. “This isn’t getting anyone anywhere. Can I ask that we table this conversation for another day when we haven’t just come back from a freak reality where the apocalypse has happened?”

With the Herald’s interruption, many of those interested parties who had been quietly observing began to slink away again, content that they had gotten all the answers they were going to get for the day.

Meanwhile, Dorian sighed and nodded in concession. “You make a good point, Sabraen. I apologise.”

Asaaranda forced themselves to be civil, for the sake of maintaining a good relationship with this version of Dorian, even if it felt like an utter betrayal of their ideals.

As such, they also sighed with concession and muttered, “Right. I’m sorry, as well. This whole situation has been… disturbing, to say the least. I find myself stuck in what we saw there, and it’s clearly affected me more than I wanted it to.”

“That much we can agree on,” Dorian remarked with an ironic snort. “Whatever this ‘Elder One’ is concerns me. His interest in the two of you can’t be indicative of anything good, especially not if he’s responsible for what we saw in that future.”

“Indeed,” Sabraen added in agreement. “We’ll have time to worry about the Elder One once the Breach is closed. It cannot wait any longer.”

“So, I take it that means we’re leaving for the Temple of Sacred Ashes tonight?” Asaaranda surmised with a raised eyebrow. “The sooner that we deal with it, the sooner we can all go home,” Sabraen insisted with a slight smile.

Even though Rook knew this was not even remotely close to the end of the journey ahead., Sabraen had a way of making Asaaranda hang onto their every word and believing in them. In spite of the fact that they knew the closing of the Breach would not be the end, they believed.

Even though, it was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

The Breach had been dealt with.

Once, where it stood a vicious and bright glowing green across the sky, there remained only the hints of a scar stitched shut refracting through the clouds in a dull grey-green. Through the combined powers of several hundred mages, including Asaaranda themselves, and the Anchor – the sky had healed and the Breach was sealed.

Haven had quickly lit up with cries of joy, as the faithful and forlorn alike rejoiced that the Herald of Andraste had successfully saved the world from demon-spewing hole in the sky.

Rook, on the other hand, had made themselves scarce. It was hard to be joyful when there was so much to dread on the horizon. Corypheus was going to make himself known any day now, and Asaaranda didn’t want to be around long enough for him to be a problem for them.

A tainted Darkspawn Noble from an ancient empire served by an Archdemon, seeking out an artefact crafted by the Dread Wolf himself that had ended up in the possession of a mere mortal who had been in the wrong place at the right time to save the world from utter destruction… that felt uncomfortably familiar.

Maker, Ghilan’nain and Elgar’nan were still out there behind the Veil, Rook realised. They were in the exact place Rook themselves had been just a few short months ago, stewing in Blight like it was bathwater and tangled up in regrets strong enough to hold gods in place. How could Solas possibly act so calm about that in the face of the entire veil crackling apart?

A sigh of resentment left Asaaranda’s lips unbidden. They were sick of dwelling on it. Maybe they needed a celebration, just to take the edge off. Hell, they’d never had Ferelden beer or Orlesian wine, what was a few drinks?

Ejecting themselves from the doom and gloom of their own little alcove of seclusion, Rook made the strides throughout Haven to the Singing Maiden. Like it had been on the first few nights, people had lined up in droves, but this time it was for celebratory booze rather than desperate war rationed meals.

They went through the queue once, grabbing a couple glasses of wine that were more vinegar than alcohol, and then once more for a couple pints of beer. Perhaps a few sips of brandy that had somehow ended up in their possession as well fell past their lips, though not enough to intoxicate them out of their mind.

Just enough to make their tension slip away like a horrible nightmare.

The problem that Rook hadn’t foreseen, and had in-fact entirely forgotten while in the midst of their sober-turned-drunk brooding, was the fact that they were a terribly sentimental drunk. Combining that with their already pervasive loneliness and incessant longing meant that they had begun to wander Haven in search of a familiar face.

“Varric?” Asaaranda called out. He hadn’t been in any of his usual waking haunts. Normally he stood right in the centre of Haven, near the stairs that took one up to the main Chantry building, but he was conspicuously absent. He also hadn’t been amongst the games of Wicked Grace or Diamondback that had popped up in amongst the celebrations.

They wondered if he had gone to bed early. On their fourth loop around Haven, they finally found the right building and discovered where Varric bunkered down to rest. Lo and behold, right by his cot on the back wall was the man himself in a suspiciously tidy space.

As the door swung open and the floorboards creaked under Asaaranda’s boisterous bounding, Varric snapped his head backwards suddenly. “Rook! There you are,” he remarked with a nervous chuckle. “What can I do for you?”

He instinctively tucked his pack and other belongings behind him, as if to shield them from Rook’s leering gaze. Everything was packed up, even his quill and inkwell. Rook had found him with a pile of papers as high as they stood on several occasions, so to find him completely bereft of them was bizarre to say the least.

It could only really mean one thing.

“…are you leaving?” Rook questioned, gazing over Varric’s newly cleaned desk and crossbow tucked against his back.

Varric cleared his throat with a harsh cough, looking anywhere but at Rook. “Not… yet. Just getting some things in order before joining the party, now that the Breach is all tied up nice and neat. Nobody likes trying to get their shit together on a hangover.”

Asaaranda crossed their arms and regarded him with suspicion and a little tinge of petty spitefulness. “So, you’re just jumping ship now? A quick drink, a game of wicked grace and the next morning you’re gone?”

The dwarf frowned, a darkened expression falling across his face. “I was thinking about it. Going back home, getting back to some semblance of normalcy. Sounds like an idea, don’t you think?”

Rook snorted, “Isn’t Kirkwall still a total shitshow right now? I don’t know that you’ll be finding much normalcy there.”

“Can’t be that much worse,” Varric defended, as he always did when it came to Kirkwall. “Besides, you telling me you’ve no interest in getting back home yourself?”

Perhaps it was the alcohol, the exhaustion, the fact that it was Varric they were talking to, or some combination of all of them that made Asaaranda speak without reservation. “If I could go home, I’d be there already,” they admitted wistfully. “But I can’t, no matter how badly I want to. There’s just too much in the way.”

A glint of curiosity flashed in Varric’s eye, momentarily distracting him from his own delightful cocktail of emotion and undeniable discomfort. “With the Breach dealt with, what’s stopping you?” he asked with a hum.

Asaaranda chuckled wearily. “Maker, what isn’t… Maybe not having anywhere or anyone to go back to after this? Also the fact that I don’t have any means of getting back without potentially screwing it all up, I don’t know, take your pick.”

“You’ve got a couple contradictions in your story there, Rook,” Varric pointed out with a raised eyebrow, though not unkindly. “You can’t exactly go back and screw things up if you never had somewhere to go back to initially.” 

Rook winced, silently cursing their past self for thinking intoxication was a solution to any of their problems rather than just a new one entirely. “Well, uh… I don’t know that that’s a contradiction. I had somewhere to go once, just not anymore. Not that that matters,” they babbled, liquor loosening their lips well and truly beyond their control.

Varric had clearly noticed, and decided to take advantage of the situation to get the heat off of himself. “So, what would going home look like to you? If you had it still.”

“Actually, maybe you should go,” Asaaranda blurted out suddenly, a completely different look on their face all at once. “Get the hell out and go back to Kirkwall while you can, you know? You did your diligence, you helped out. Why overstay your welcome?”

Varric scrunched up his nose in response. He’d poked a bit too far, evidently. The kid had a lot of sore spots, a fair few of them that he’d found since figuring out the kid was a runaway slave. He recognised an attempt at deflection when he saw one, being a seasoned expert at the craft himself, but the kid’s was blatantly obvious.

“Well, like I said, I’ve been thinking about it,” Varric reminded with a shrug. “I don’t think it has to be right now. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be soon. It’s just something I’ve been considering since we came back from the Temple.”

Desperation fell upon Asaaranda’s expression which they tried to cover up with a light-hearted grin. “You know, I really think you have the right idea. If I were you, I’d be gone by now. Save yourself the hangover and the extra traffic on the roads. It’ll be a nightmare tomorrow, all these faithful trying to make it home.”

For all their odd behaviour, somehow this struck Varric as the strangest part. Just moments before they seemed horribly heartbroken about his potential departure, and now here they were practically shoving him out the door.

What was going on with them?

The sudden ringing of warning bells echoed throughout the entirety of Haven like a deafening scream, cutting both of their thoughts short. They could hear Cullen calling outside, “Forces approaching, to arms!” and the repeated stamping of rushing soldiers. Crowds of outraged and confused people cried out, as panic raged through the settlement.

Even without seeing what was responsible for the commotion, Rook knew. 

They went cold, the colour draining from their cheeks as horror staunched the alcohol’s effect on their body. It hadn’t even been a full day. It had been some hours, at most. How had Corypheus and his Templars already made it here?

Shit, shit, shit, they shouldn’t have been drinking, they knew they had been stupid to try and stave off their frustrations with excessive libations.

Varric and Rook both made silent eye contact and turned sharply on their heels to rush out of the dorm room. Varric headed towards the gates with Bianca in tow, whilst Rook fled to the room they shared with the Inquisitor in order to grab their staff.

“We’re heading outside the gates to defend the Trebuchets, come on,” Sabraen barked out leaving no room for argument.

“What’s going on?” Rook asked, nonetheless.

Sabraen turned to them with a serious glare. “It’s the Elder One. He’s come for us.”

**

Haven was going to be crushed like an anthill, and there was nothing Rook could do about it. Not only had Corypheus arrived, he’d brought an army greater in number than the entirety of Haven with him.

Templars infected with Red Lyrium had stormed the town, which was not even remotely defensible enough to withstand a sieging force of any size, let alone this. To make matters, worse, Corypheus’ Archdemon had made itself known and set the town ablaze, only increasing the amount of damage and civilian casualties to a number near uncountable.

Every scream brought them back to Minrathous. Every cry for help reminded them of those they could not save, as more and more people succumbed to the attacks. Blight, Old Gods, Archdemons – if they squinted, the siege on Haven looked no different than the immediate aftermath of the attack on Docktown.

Their head was pounding by the time they retreated back inside of the Chantry, every bit of their blood felt blazingly hot like something had crawled under their skin and burrowed inwards. Rook reasoned that it was the adrenaline, the alcohol, the fear, or some combination of all of the above, but they had never felt so damn alive.

And it would be all for nothing if they died here in Haven.

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald,” the strange boy reported.

“If it will save these people, he can have me,” Sabraen determined, much to both Solas and Asaaranda’s immediate disapproval.

“It won’t. He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he’ll crush them, kill them anyway,” he insisted, wearily. “I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like—? Herald. There are no tactics to make this survivable,” Cullen stated firmly, keeping as steady as he could. “The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide. At the very least, we can decide how we die.”

Asaaranda cursed under their breath. “There has to be another path. Surely.”

A moment of unease passed through the group, a moment of doubt that any other such path existed, only for a soft gasp of realisation to sound from the boy sitting at the Chancellor’s side. “Yes… Chancellor Rodrick can help. He wants to say it before he dies.”

The group all turned their attentions to the Chancellor immediately, figuring there was no other option to lean onto. The old man instinctively straightened his posture, despite the gushing wound in his side. “There is a path. You wouldn’t know it, unless you’d made the summer pilgrimage,” Chancellor Rodrick wheezed through every breath. “The people can escape. He must have shown me. The Maker must have shown me so I can tell you.”

It seemed unbelievable, but they were desperate. Rook had once contemplated whether it was better to die unaware or go out fighting, and they hadn’t expected to receive an answer to that question so soon.

The Herald steadied their gaze and turned back to the Commander. “What do you think, Cullen? Will it work?” Sabraen asked, shakily yet firm. The Commander gave a look of genuine unsurety. “Possibly… if he shows us the path. But, what of your escape?” Cullen asked with a frown.

A beat. Rook’s heart dropped. They knew exactly what Sabraen was considering, and even to them it sounded utterly bonkers. “You have to be kidding me, I’m not letting you tackle an Archdemon and whatever the Elder One is alone,” Rook hissed furiously. “I’m coming with you.”

This was what Sabraen’s great plan was to face against Corypheus? Speak with him alone and hope that he wouldn’t kill them on sight? “You heard what he said. It’s only me they’re after,” Sabraen reminded, grimly. “If these people see us both fall, they need to have some kind of hope.”

“Our whole thing kinda falls apart if the one with the ability to close rifts dies and the one supposed to protect them lives, doesn’t it?” Rook spat hysterically. “This can’t happen like this. You’re the one that people believe in.”

They couldn’t trust themselves not to have this fall completely apart. Just because this version of the Inquisition hadn’t deviated from its original, didn’t mean that it wouldn’t now.

“I trust you and the Commander to help lead these people to safety, Rook,” Sabraen insisted, grasping them by the shoulder firmly. “They believe in you, and so do I. Keep them safe, okay?”

Asaaranda groaned. They were powerless to deny them, and every second they argued was another second of retreat lost, another moment where history could change to favour their enemies instead. It was with that in mind that they declared, “Venhedis, if you get yourself killed, I’m going to hunt you down in the Fade myself.”

Sabraen flashed them a warm but weak smile as they stood, pushed open the entryway doors, and closed them shut with a resounding thud that echoed through the Chantry like a death tolling bell.

Asaaranda turned to Cullen grimly. “Come on. We cannot let their attempt at sacrifice be in vain.” Cullen nodded, barking out orders to all who could hear him immediately. “As you say. Inquisition, follow Chancellor Rodrick through the Chantry, move!”

The people of the Inquisition fled as one, not unlike ants scurrying away from destruction. Asaaranda followed them all at the rear in order to keep an eye on the chaos behind them, hoping against all hopes that this would turn out like how it did the last time.

Maker, please let there be a miracle for a second time in a row, they prayed silently.

Chancellor Rodrick directed them over the hill, past a clearing that had been covered in overgrown weeds and then blanketed in snow. The faithful ploughed on through, as hundreds upon hundreds of people fled through the snow.

Asaaranda stopped at the top of the hill and watched as the trebuchet fired a boulder at the side of the opposite mountain with a spectacular boom that echoed across the valley. One by one, the torches across the horizon extinguished as Corypheus’ army were swallowed by the snow.

Somewhere underneath all of that was the Herald of Andraste. The only one who had any hope at defeating Corypheus had buried themselves under the avalanche along with their enemies. And yet, Rook only had the choice to keep moving forward.

The people of the Inquisition walked for what felt like several hours, only stopping at another valley when the beginnings of storms rolled in and made it impossible to proceed any further. They were too large in number to go without risking too many casualties.

The Inquisition was stuck.

As Asaaranda wandered listlessly around the campsite, doing a mental tally of survivors that they recognised, they came across the only two people they had hoped beyond belief would be okay, sitting together and working on a campfire.

“Rook! Maker, I’m so glad you made it out,” Harding remarked with utter relief. “I don’t know that we could have taken losing you as well. Morale’s pretty low as is.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Varric added with a haunted look in his eye. Rook didn’t pay it much mind, as they moved by compulsion alone to sit by his and Harding’s side. “You alright?”

“I’m… shaken,” Asaaranda admitted. “I’m trying hard not to think about all the possibilities, otherwise I might shatter. But otherwise, I’m fine.”

Rook’s eyes fell upon the pitiful embers of the fire before them. The winds were making it impossible for a proper blaze to stay lit. Decisively, they summoned a simple barrier spell around the flames, thick enough to shield it from the wind but thin enough to allow heat and light to escape.

Harding practically beamed as the pitiful embers became a more substantial source of warmth, and she rushed to warm her frozen hands as it grew. “Maker, you’re a miracle, Rook! Oh, I could kiss you right now.”

Asaaranda’s brain came to a screeching halt all at once, replaying stuttering memories of their own time’s Harding and their first kiss. The rush of singing lyrium under their skin, the pounding of blood in their ears, the way their legs had buckled underneath them and they’d fallen flat on their back from just a simple press of her lips.

They swooned by mere association and gave a flustered response, “Oh! Well, of course, I’m always happy to provide! You know. I’m around. If you need, uh… warmth.”

Despite the grim situation, a gentle series of giggles erupted from Harding’s lips. “I’ll be sure to take you up on that. Though, maybe it might be worth sharing that warmth around?” she suggested, before suddenly blushing a deep red as her own words really registered in the forefront of her mind. “I mean, the magic to protect the fires, that is! We’ve got a lot of cold people in need of help. You know what I mean.”

Asaaranda nodded, gut swirling with butterflies that they tried desperately to quell. “Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m gonna go do that. You take it easy, Harding. Varric. Try and rest up.” With a half-hearted wave, Rook fled like a dog with its tail between its legs.

They hadn’t intended to flirt with her. Hell, they weren’t even sure Harding had intended to flirt with them either, it was just that Rook took it as such by sheer association to memories that this Harding wasn’t even privy to. Some desperate and longing part of them badly wanted it to be real, even if they knew it was atrociously unfair to them both.

It wouldn’t be fair to place the expectations of their relationship with their own Harding on the one of this time. They were still carrying the heartbreak of losing her, losing their own time, losing to Solas, and that burden would inevitably translate into whatever relationships they formed with this Harding.

It just couldn’t happen, they had to be better than that.

Shame and devastation swirling in their gut, Asaaranda busied themselves with helping the people of the inquisition with setting up camp and keeping the fires going. It was all they could do, while they prayed that the Herald would make it through the impossible.

The storms were fierce, and the night was freezing cold. Each flame could only provide so much comfort against the elements, but the people were appreciative nonetheless. The once delightful warmth of their ill-advised alcohol consumption had entirely burned off by the time that Rook had finished their rounds the entire camp, leaving them bone-chilled and exhausted.

Seeing no other option, they found an empty bedroll in the centre of the camp and curled up next to it to sleep. Yet, it seemed that the Maker had other plans for them.

“There! It’s them!” Cullen called out, making Asaaranda jerk upwards from their bed by the fireside in disbelief. They’d actually pulled through, Sabraen Lavellan had survived – that could be the only explanation for his cry of relief.

To know that it had happened once before was a surprise, to know that it could happen again was a miracle.

Asaaranda surged onto their feet and rushed uphill to help Cullen, Cassandra, and the others carry Sabraen over to an available cot. Solas had also made his presence known, as he joined Rook at the Herald’s side.

Sabraen was blue in the lips, breathing shallowly, shivering violently, and had a barely discernible pulse no matter how hard Rook searched for it. Undoubtedly, they were hypothermic.

“What are you doing?” Cassandra gawked, as Asaaranda quickly busied themselves with disrobing Sabraen.

“Their clothes are saturated, Seeker. They won’t warm up like this,” Rook insisted, continuing until all their wet clothes had been stripped away. Fortunately, their undergarments had been spared the same fate as their robes. “Solas, can you keep an eye out on the mark?” they requested, firmly.

“Will do,” he replied curtly, not meeting their gaze as he casted his spell over the sputtering Anchor. It was in this that the Dread Wolf and Rook were united once more, both singularly devoted to one goal; save the Herald of Andraste’s life.

While he calmed the Anchor, Rook slowly absorbed the excess ice out of Sabraen’s skin. There were perks to being an ice mage, after all – a higher cold tolerance was one of them.

“We should boil some water, anything to warm them quicker,” one of the advisors suggested.

“No, if you stick them into the heat all at once, they’ll go into shock,” Asaaranda barked, shooing away the others with their free hand. “Solas and I have it covered. You all need to make sure nobody interrupts us before we’re certain they’ll pull through.”

Cassandra nodded, conceding to their insistence. “Very well. May the Maker watch over you both.”

As she and the rest of the Council departed, Rook and Solas focused on their work. As much as they were both skilled healers, only time would tell if they could actually save Sabraen's life.

Chapter Text

Sabraen Lavellan survived Corypheus’ attack on Haven and an entire bloody avalanche coming down on their head. Not only that, they walked for hours in freezing cold robes and somehow managed to navigate the mountainside in a blizzard to find the Inquisition camps. With Solas and Rook’s assistance, they’d even survived going into severe hypothermia.

To anyone in or out of the Inquisition, it sounded impossible and yet Rook knew that this was technically the second time that this had happened. The Maker worked in mysterious ways and all, they supposed.

Once Sabraen was actually well enough to lead the Inquisition once more, they helped navigate the survivors along the Frostbacks to the fortress that Rook had only ever heard about in stories told like legends.

Skyhold.

It was every bit as impressive as they’d heard it described, once one looked past all the ruins and evidence of past battles that had been fought and lost in this place. Time had worn it down in several places.

While everyone settled into Skyhold and the Inquisition scrambled to get itself organised, Rook took advantage of all their sudden free time to explore the fortress. They wandered past the stables to greet the mounts, who were thrilled to see Rook.

They explored the kitchens, the basement, the tower which included a library, a rookery, and Solas’ own little alcove, and even found the Herald’s Rest Tavern which had popped up almost immediately upon the Inquisition’s big move-in.

And now, Rook needed to find somewhere where they fit amongst its many spaces. It was more daunting than finding somewhere at Haven had been. Previously, they’d just been given the space to share with the Herald.

In the end, they’d settled on a little room near the drawbridge. It was fairly isolated from the rest of the Inquisition, which meant once they finally disappeared, it wouldn’t feel like a significant loss.

They cleared the cobwebs, tided up the shelves, grabbed some books from the library that nobody would miss to make the space feel somewhat more homey, and cobbled together a bed from the bedroll that they travelled with and a series of barrels.

It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be.

A sharp series of knocks sounded from their bedroom door, quickly propelling them into action. Asaaranda opened the door and remarked, “Oh! Hey, Varric. What’s up?”

“Hey, Rook,” Varric greeted in turn with a warm yet guarded smile. “You got a minute to talk?”

“Sure thing,” they replied, welcoming him inside. They pulled out the chair from their desk for him to sit on, while they arranged themselves on the end of their bed with as neutral and non-anticipatory expression as they could muster.

“I’ve been thinking about what we talked about in Haven the night that Corypheus attacked,” Varric said, plainly. “You mentioned that if not for the things stopping you from going home that you’d be there already.”

A nervous chuckle left their lips before Rook could stop it. “Yeah…?”

“I figured out that I’m in kind of the same boat as you. There are things keeping me here at the Inquisition, no matter how much I want to go home,” he declared with a wistful sigh. “So, I’m gonna be sticking around for a while to help out.”

Asaaranda gave him a warm and pleased smile. “Oh, that’s great. I’m glad to hear it, Varric,” they stated, unsure whether they were lying or being honest with him. His departure had been a drunken suggestion born of their brief contemplation that maybe Solas wouldn’t kill him if he was gone.

“Thanks, Rook,” Varric replied. “And, uh, speaking of helping out, I’ve got kind of a small favour to ask.”

Rook narrowed their eyes at him playfully, but nodded in agreement. “Sure thing. What can I help with?”

“I’ve got a… friend coming to Skyhold in the not too distant future. They don’t do too great with stairs, and Skyhold’s full of them. I was hoping they might make use of your room for a night or two while they’re here,” he explained with a casual yet pensive smile. “Since it’s the only real room on the ground level.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Rook conceded easily. “No worries, Varric.” The request didn’t seem particularly outrageous or bizarre, considering how guarded he’d approached them as. Besides, they were almost certain they’d never refuse him over something as simple as this.

An immediate look of relief washed over the dwarf. “Great! I’ll let you know when they’re here, it should be another week or two until they arrive, so until then, just sit tight. I’ll be in touch.”

With that, he departed and left Asaaranda to their own devices. A small part of them was relieved to be spared any more emotional conversations with him, while another part just felt deeply drained. They supposed they needed to find another place to sleep while Varric’s friend took their room. Skyhold had to have some other empty corner for them to lay their head at night, surely.

Rook walked up one of the many sets of stairs available to them, and began to start their journey around the fortress for another room to stay in when an oddly familiar figure by the Herald’s Rest caught their attention.

A lithe young man dressed in sun-bleached rag-like clothes and a wide brim hat was carrying a basket of turnips in his arms. When Rook stopped to look at him, he paused and met their curious gaze with his own searing glance from underneath the hat’s brim.

His sea green eyes were blanketed in his choppy yellowed fringe, but that made his stare no less intense. Asaaranda felt as if he was staring through to something beyond them, rather than at him. It was uncanny. They were sure that they had seen him somewhere before, that he reminded them of someone, but the memory was just of reach.

They blinked and he was gone, yet after a moment, he returned once more, turnip-less.

“Hello?” Rook called to him as they approached. “Can I help you?”

“So much hurt everywhere. You kept making yours quiet,” the boy murmured in lieu of an actual response. “Thunderstorm forced to be a drizzle, a dragon hunting the wolf that hides amongst the halla. Nobody can know but it hurts to be alone.”

Asaaranda blinked at him dumbly. “…I’m sorry?”

As if Rook hadn’t even spoken, the boy continued to mutter repeatedly. “Ash falling from the sky, the stench of Blight everywhere, like Haven but much farther away. Dragons descended from above, had to make a choice, had to save someone, had to go somewhere. Shadows scattered, like before, disappointed them again. Now you don’t know if it’ll be the same when you go back home.” 

Like a shot of lightning straight to the chest, Asaaranda flinched in horror and sudden realisation. “Wait… I remember now. You arrived when the Templars attacked, you helped us find Skyhold. You’re Cole, aren’t you?”

The boy nodded, replying again with his next trail of thought. “He told you stories to help prepare you for what you’d face. He wanted you to remember the friend, not the enemy – the man, not the wolf. Now he doesn’t know. You thought you could make it different if he left, but now he doesn’t want to go and it scares you.”

They gawked at him in awe. “You’re… talking about Varric.”

Not just Varric, either. ‘The man, not the wolf,’ could only mean one person, but it seemed impossible that he would know something like that. Nobody in the world but Rook knew Solas was Fen’Harel yet.

Cole continued, “Your Varric told you about me. A different me, the spirit who wanted to help the wolf’s hurt but couldn’t. So he found you. You helped when the other Cole couldn’t and then it backfired. Trusted him, betrayed, everyone dead or gone, have to get out, had to find a way. She lead you here and now everything that’s happening is happening for the second time, but different…”

The spirit in front of them had pried out pieces of themselves that nobody henceforth to now had been privy to. It had been their torch to carry, a silent sibling sworn to secrecy, where they dared not test the waters by even hinting at what they knew.

Asaaranda nodded with a strained smile. “I’m not sure I entirely understand how you know all of that…”

“I hear the hurt that people carry; feel it when I get close enough. I want to help,” Cole explained. “There are little things I can do for others, but for you it’s bigger. Months of half-truths, wondering when the time will come to finally fight back, too many burdens to bear alone, you want someone to remember who you were before Rook became your name, but you’re scared it’ll ruin everything.”

They shuddered, barely suppressing the tears that rushed to their eyes in response. “Fuck, Varric wasn’t kidding when he said you got at people’s sensitive points. Nailed it in one.”

For all that they wore Varric’s nickname ‘Rook’ as a badge of honour most days, Asaaranda was their name for a reason. It had been the name they took for themselves so many years ago, when the pieces of themselves fell into place.

It had been a reclamation and declaration of identity and self that they’d tried to suppress and make smaller. Yet here they were, amongst the Inquisition, doing everything they could to make themselves smaller all so that they could avoid suspicion while trying to stop Solas.

Asaaranda froze as a thought suddenly occurred to them. “Wait, so, if you can hear people’s hurts just by being near them, does that mean you can hear Solas’ as well?”

“I try. His pain is so loud, but he doesn’t want it getting out. He thinks if he forgets it, that he’ll lose sight of why he’s here,” Cole remarked. “He blocks me out, won’t let me help.”

Rook blinked as a plan rapidly formed in their mind. Before they had time to think it through, they blurted out, “You want to help Solas, help him move past his pain. Cole, do you think you can help me? If you help me, then maybe we can help Solas together.”

Cole cocked his head contemplatively, eyes sparkling with curiosity. After a moment longer, he nodded. “The guards haven’t settled into their new rotations around Skyhold, yet,” he reported with a quiet but insistent hum. “Alexius is down in the dungeons. You should go see him now, before he has to face trial. He will help you find a way out.”

“Alexius survived Haven?” Rook remarked in awe and surprise. They would have thought he’d have been left behind in the evacuation efforts.

“Dorian wouldn’t let him go,” Cole reported simply. “’Couldn’t bare to lose him like that, not after all he did for me. Alexius gave me a place when I had none. Had to give him that much, at least, after everything.’”

He then turned to Rook again. “You don’t have much time. The guards will figure out one of them is in the wrong place soon.”

The boy then disappeared, leaving Rook alone in the centre of the yard. They briefly scanned their surroundings, and upon seeing absolutely nobody pay them any mind, they rushed towards the dungeon door.

It was the perfect opportunity that they’d been waiting for. They pushed open the door and rushed down the stairs. Once they made it underground, it became apparent that there were no guards inside – evidence that Cole had been telling the truth.

Behind one final door was a room filled with half a dozen cells. Only one of them had been occupied, and it was by the very man that they needed to fix all of this.

Curled up against the back wall of his cell, Gereon Alexius appeared much more like a mouse than a magister. He had been left in the classic Tevinter finery he arrived in, but he was filthy with dust and grime from more than a few days’ worth of wear.

Dark, almost blood-coloured circles stood out prominently under his eyes, highlighting the utter lack of warmth and energy behind them. He looked to be a man broken beyond belief. Unfortunately for him, Rook would offer no reprieve.

“Alexius?” Asaaranda called out, gaining the man’s attention at once. He turned his head upwards in their direction, craning his neck from his place on the cell floor. “You…Rook, wasn’t it?” the former Magister remarked wearily.

They knelt at the door, sinking into the rubble-laden floor in order to meet him at his level. “Yes. I have an offer for you, Magister.”

Alexius scoffed disdainfully, “I am no Magister anymore. If what you want is power or to blackmail me for such, you are asking the wrong man.”

Rook shook their head. “No. It’s not power I need. It’s knowledge. Knowledge that only you have.”

The old man’s expression twisted into a mournful scowl. “Power… knowledge… One could say they are the very same thing. What more could I possibly give to this Inquisition that I haven’t already?”

Asaaranda swallowed roughly. If Cole was right, they would only have a few minutes at best before the guards realised their mistakes and came back here. They needed to play dirty. “Your son Felix is blighted, yes? That’s why he’s been so ill.”

Alexius’ eyes darkened entirely, an almost murderous glare settling across his face as he snarled and leapt forward to press against the iron bars, “Don’t you dare speak of him, you have no right—”

“I can cure him of the Blight,” they interrupted firmly. “I will make sure that the Council spares you execution, and you will be allowed to see your son live out the rest of his life, if you help me,” Asaaranda insisted, grasping Alexius by his weak, freezing cold hands.

The Grey Wardens could save Felix’s life, albeit temporarily. Alexius didn’t need to know that technicality. If he gave them what they wanted, he could theoretically recreate Rook’s own circumstances and travel back in time before Corypheus made an appearance and save Felix from the Blight that way.

It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t entirely the truth.

The old man paused looking at Asaaranda with a mixture of horror and intrigue. “You… how? You would cure the Blight? That is…”

“Impossible? Only according to the current limitations of the common understanding of the Blight. When one can’t look to present knowledge, you look to the past or future,” they declared insistently.

“You mean to travel through time in search for a cure to the Blight…” Alexius deflated momentarily. “There is no future you could travel to where such a thing exists. Our actions in the present have too much effect. I have tried everything, and it is impossible.”

They couldn’t let him give up. “And if I told you I knew of one?” Asaaranda pressed. “Where there was a future in which a cure to the Blight already existed, if I told you of one that I knew, where I have seen it happen…”

The Magister’s eyes widened, hope seeping through the darkness he once held in his heart. “…no… you couldn’t possibly. Could you?” He had arrived at the conclusion Rook was desperately leading him to. Alexius instinctively tightened his grip on Asaaranda’s hands and found himself close to weeping.

Asaaranda placed their hands and his against their heart and swore with every ounce of their being, “If you help me, Gereon, I will tell you everything I know and give you exactly what I have offered. I swear it on my grave.”

Gereon Alexius stared back at Asaaranda in awe and disbelief, looking at them like they were Andraste herself. Tears fell freely down his cheeks, forming crystalline tracks against his skin. “Whatever knowledge you want that I possess… I will do my best to provide,” Alexius confirmed, shakily swearing through his sobs.

“Show me everything you understand about time travel. Not now. Not here. But soon, once your sentence is passed down,” Asaaranda pleaded, hurriedly. “Give me that knowledge and everything I’ve offered is yours.”

“I will,” he confirmed. That was enough. Rook sprang to their feet. With genuine relief and gratitude, they remarked, “Thank you, Magister. We’ll talk after your trial. Do not tell anyone we spoke of this.”

Following that, Rook sprinted out of the dungeons and made themselves scarce, just before anyone would ever notice that they had been in conversation with him, let alone anywhere near the dungeons. Silently, they sent a silent thanks to Cole, wherever he was in the fortress.

Their plans were finally coming to fruition. They had sat around on their hands for far too long, and now they had found an ally to aid them once more. Every inch of their body felt electric with potential, they were going to finally fight back against the Dread Wolf.

Now that they had Alexius in their pocket, they needed to make sure he survived long enough for him to pass his knowledge of time travel on. That meant making sure that the Inquisitor would spare his life.

**

Asaaranda tracked down the Inquisitor in the war room later that same evening, just as they were exiting a meeting with Cullen and Josephine. “Rook!” Sabraen greeted as they approached. “It’s been a while since we spoke. I can imagine things have been busy for you as well, yes?”

They chuckled politely, giving a nod of acknowledgement to Cullen and Josephine as they appeared. “Apparently so, Inquisitor. I was hoping to speak with you about something, in private?” Asaaranda greeted warmly. They then turned to the advisors and clarified with a gentle hum, “If you don’t mind me borrowing them, of course.”

Josephine shook her head with a polite smile. “Not at all. We’ve just concluded for the evening, either way.”

“Thank you, Ambassador, Commander. I appreciate it,” they called as Josephine and Cullen departed. “May as well take the War Room, right? Most private place in the entirety of Skyhold.”

Sabraen chuckled, and followed Rook back inside the war room, then closed the door behind them. Good, less chance of Leliana’s spies listening in. “Indeed. Am I to assume this conversation is for business, then?” Sabraen asked simply.

Asaaranda nodded, walking around the war room to the backmost wall near the windows. “I’ve been thinking more and more about Alexius. What he did. It’s just… with his judgement coming up, I can’t help but wonder what will become of him?” they began with as casual a tone as they could conjure.

Sabraen gave a shrug and a half-hearted expression as they followed behind. “I haven’t really had the chance to think about his sentencing yet. I mean, between the attempted assassination, the enslavement, and everything else he’s done, I think people are expecting me to execute him tomorrow.”

“And is that a sentiment you agree with, Inquisitor?” Rook asked, still attempting to remain casual despite the surge of panicked desperation that ran through them. They hadn’t realised his sentencing would be happening so soon.

Sabraen flashed them an inquisitive look in turn. “Is it one that you do? Given how you reacted to the rebel mage’s enslavement…”

Rook cleared their throat and avoided eye contact. “It might surprise you to know that I don’t agree with the idea. For all the terrible things that Alexius did, it was in service of someone he loves. More to the point, he invented magic to allow time travel. Wasting that potential by executing him seems a waste.”

“It does surprise me, in some respects, you’re right,” Sabraen remarked coolly, polite confusion evident in their expression. “You just seemed so personally furious with him. I would have thought you’d be the first to push the chair out from underneath him, so to speak.”

Rook sighed, crossing their arms as they leaned up against the wall. “I am furious, but not with him specifically. It’s… I’m sure it’s obvious that slavery is a touchy subject for me. And as much as I can find it in myself to hate Alexius for participating in it, I can’t see execution as the punishment he ought to receive.”

Sabraen gave a quiet ‘huh’ in response, contemplative and as nonjudgemental as they could bring themselves to be. “So, if you were rending the judgement, what would you consider to be an appropriate punishment?”

Continuing to aim for simple, casual suggestion rather than gut-wrenching desperation, Rook finally made eye contact with the Inquisitor and spoke again. “I’d put him to work. Let him use that mind of his for good, make him work for the Mages he enslaved. Something to that effect.”

Sabraen clicked their tongue in agreement. “I can’t say it’s a terrible idea. Honestly, with the Inquisition in the position that it’s in now, we could use as many resources as possible. Why not turn one of Corypheus’ against him?”

“Exactly my point,” Asaaranda agreed, trying not to sound overly cheerful. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision, Sabraen. I trust your judgement on this.”

The Inquisitor flashed them an appreciative smile. “Thanks, Rook. I’m glad you’ve got my back.”

Asaaranda barely slept at all that night, feeling too jittery and nervous to even begin contemplating a restful sleep. By the following morning, when they emerged from their room at the earliest possible hour to observe Alexius’ appearance before the Inquisitor, they were practically shivering with anxiety.

If Sabraen changed their mind, or made a different decision, it would be all over.

They watched with bated breath as Sabraen sat down on their throne and Josephine approached with her quill and notes in hand. Crowds gathered around with intrigue, eagerly discussing the Inquisitor’s first public judgement and awaiting the final call.

“You recall Gereon Alexius of Tevinter. King Alistair of Ferelden has given him to us as acknowledgement of your aid,” Josephine declared, in a loud commanding tone that captured the attention of the entire room. “The formal charges are apostasy, attempted enslavement, and attempted assassination – on your own life, no less.”

Two Inquisition guards shoved him forward towards the throne. Alexius had been chained, stripped out of his armour and finery, and left only as the shell of a man that Rook had spoken to down in the dungeon. Josephine continued, “Tevinter has disowned and stripped him of his rank. You may judge the former magister as you see fit.”

“Very well,” Sabraen said simply, quiet determination making way for calm authority behind their tone. “I would hear him speak. That much at least, he is owed.”

Though Alexius made no attempt to turn or even acknowledge Rook’s presence in the room, Asaaranda could feel the moment when his thoughts turned to them. “I have nothing to say to you. What’s done is done,” he stated firmly.

Josephine, as well as several others, audibly expressed their confusion. “Will you offer nothing more in your defense?”

Alexius ignored Josephine’s question entirely, looked them straight in the eye as if he had been looking directly at Rook instead, and insisted, “Render your judgement, Inquisitor.”

After a moment of silent contemplation, the Inquisitor straightened their back, cleared their throat and calmly made their final call.

“Gereon Alexius. Your magic was theoretically impossible. I could use people like you. Your sentence is to serve, under guard, as a researcher on all things magical for the Inquisition,” Sabraen Lavellan declared.

The crowd seemed to deflate at such an outcome, but Rook was elated. The guards took Alexius away, presumably back to his cell in the dungeon until he could be properly allocated amongst the Inquisition, and the crowd of disappointed observers dispersed.

A surge of hope burst forth through Rook’s chest.

Alexius would live. Alexius had been spared execution, and in so doing, the entirety of Thedas would be saved. He held the secret to time travel, and that meant soon that Rook would as well.

There were just a few more things they needed to attend to before they could start putting their plan into motion, but that didn’t matter.

Rook was one step closer to defeating the Dread Wolf.

Chapter Text

Gereon Alexius hadn’t expected to survive his trial before the Inquisitor.

After failing to serve the Elder One, the offer that Rook had made to him seemed just too good to be true. An offer for his son to be healed and himself to be spared execution, after all he had done… it seemed impossible.

Yet, Rook had insinuated that not only was his time travel magic functional, in fact it had brought them from the future and into the present.

Even if it had been a lie to catch his attention, they had clearly upheld at least part of their promise – he had been spared execution, as well as proper imprisonment entirely. He had been so certain that he wouldn’t be, that all of it had been a cruel trick meant to crush the last of his hopes before the Inquisitor’s axe would fall upon his neck.

And still… he had lived. The Inquisition had provided him his own semi-private office in their newly constructed mage tower for him to conduct research in. Any and all his work would be scrutinised by the Inquisition Spymaster, but aside from that, it was like he’d never left Minrathous.

“Thank you, young man,” he’d thanked, as one of the Inquisition’s many runners arrived with his parchment and ink requisition. He didn’t feel like much of a prisoner, if one ignored the armed Templar guards at his back at all times.

A short while into his first day as the Inquisition’s new ‘experimental magics’ consultant, he’d heard it. “Ser Knight! It’s good to see you. What can we do for you?”

“I’ve a matter for discussion with the Magister. Inquisitor’s orders,” they reported simply, with a pleasant expression on their face. “Is now a good time?”

The Templar gave a hum of contemplation and then agreement. “I don’t see why not. Come on in.”

Rook, the so-called Knight of the Maker – a Qunari mage that towered above most men in both stature and temperament - was a curiosity. When they had spoken with him in the dungeons, they’d felt not unlike a Magister, prying apart his outer shell to twist his guts and manipulate him into doing their bidding, snake-like in their venomous determination.

Here, one could have almost mistaken them for an oversized mutt; gentle and giant with far more bark than bite. They greeted the guards with warm smiles and humble bows, polite conversation filled with nothing of substance.

But when their golden eyes met his, it was like facing down a dragon in its den. One could not be quite assured of its intentions, nor its motivation, just its raw power and determination. He tried not to flinch before them, knowing that if he had any chance of saving his son, this Qunari was it.

“Ser Rook,” Alexius greeted, trying to keep the wobble of anticipation out of his tone. “How may I help?”

“I was hoping to discuss some findings regarding chronological anomalies and spatial travel through the veil. Your work, as dangerous as it is, should be thoroughly studied to avoid future incidents,” Rook stated simply.

The templar – Ser Lachlan, or some other such Fereldan name – piped up and made an immediate fuss. “Messere—Ser Knight. I had heard that the study of any and all ‘time travel magics’ was forbidden. Am I to understand that’s now changed?”

Rook gave a gentle hum. “Well, there must have been some miscommunication.”

“If—if there is, we really should ask the Commander,” Ser Lachlan insisted. “I can send for a runner—”

Alexius blinked and suddenly a blonde boy in a wide-brimmed hat appeared. He leaned over to whisper in the Templar’s ear, gentle and coaxing. “Smell of honeysuckle and rose, like a breath of fresh spring amongst the winter air. Her cheeks flush against the cold, wondering if you’ve forgotten her. She misses you, she thought you were lost forever after the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She came here to find you.”

Ser Lachlan’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, as he went ghostly white and whispered, “Penelope? She’s here? Maker, I have to find her!” In an instant, he scampered away, completely forgetting his duties over Alexius.

Rook visibly relaxed once the Templar was gone. They turned to the strange boy with a smile and sighed, “Thank you, Cole. How much time do you think we’ll have?”

“Not long. Leliana’s people will notice him with her by the stables… Maybe fifteen minutes?” Cole replied. “I will come back when they do.”

“Then that’ll have to do. Just until I can convince them to let me supervise,” Rook concluded with a shrewd hum. “Let us hurry then. Alexius?”

Gereon blinked in surprise, taken off guard by the sudden change in direction. “Yes, um… I suppose we shall.” In an instant, the strange boy – Cole – had disappeared just as he’d arrived, between the blink of an eye, leaving Alexius alone with Rook.

“Excellent,” Rook replied and then promptly took a seat for themselves on an empty chair near his desk. “Tell me everything. The theory, the actual practical application of the magic, as much as you can.”

Alexius cleared his throat, and forced himself into a sense of composure. He would not let himself falter before this creature. “First and foremost, I would know what has become of my son. Where did he go after Redcliffe?”

Rook groaned and rolled their eyes, “Maker, Alexius, I don’t have time for this.”

“If what you insinuated is true, we have all the time in the world,” Alexius protested with an insistent huff. “When you came to me, you vowed that Felix would be cured. Is that still the case or do you intend to go back on your word?”

The Qunari gave a deep sigh of exasperation, irritation washing over their features. “Felix will be fine. I’m going to take care of it. I can’t do that if you leave me hanging and don’t tell me how you made time travel possible.”

Feeling petulant, Alexius harrumphed. “And how can I guarantee that this hasn’t been an elaborate ruse to allow the Inquisition to take advantage of the magic that I invented? I will concede that my life has been spared, but if that is all you have to show for it…”

Rook did a silent scream into the palms of their hands and then turned back to glare at him. “This is a lot bigger than the damned Inquisition, Gereon. Maker’s sake, I can’t be doing this stupid dance with you.”

That caught Alexius’ attention. “Why?” he pressed. “Is the Inquisition not sanctioned on facing the biggest threat to Thedas’ in the entirety of its history?”

They paused, realising perhaps just how much of their hand that they had shown to him unwittingly. After an extended pause, after Alexius watched Rook cycle through about twenty different facial expressions, and after something seemed to click in their head, Rook decided very plainly, “…fuck it.”

Before he had time to ask his own questions, or to allow his mind to run wild beyond belief, Rook fixed him with a steely look and a grim tone, rising to their feet. “I come from a time where the Sixth and Seventh Blights are happening concurrently. Everything that you know or understand about the Blight? Double it, including the damned Archdemons.”

Alexius became very quiet. Contemplative. The implications of such a statement washed over him all at once. Two Archdemons in a single Blight was unprecedented. The damage could very well prove to be more devastating than the First Blight itself, even with Grey Wardens. Politics were a greater killer than Darkspawn at times. But it was beyond absurd, he thought. It was a clear manipulation, and a poor one at that.

“A double Blight? You expect me to believe that?” he murmured disdainfully.

Rook’s furious glare could have burned a hole through his chest. “Oh, for… I expect you to give me a little more to work with than constant doubt and mind games, Alexius.”  They jabbed an accusatory finger right at his heart, taking advantage of their taller stature to try and intimidate him.

“I have made my stance on these matters plain, Rook,” Alexius reminded. “My son is my priority. If his life cannot be guaranteed…”

They took several steps closer, backing him up against the wall. “How do you expect me to save Felix’s life if you don’t give me what I need to get back to my own time?” Rook asked, fuming. “The cure for the Blight is in the future.”

“And you’ve no means for producing it here in the present?” he rebutted, standing his ground despite the clear disadvantage he was at physically. As expected, it only fanned the flames of their fury.

“I don’t have the same contacts here as I did in my time. Anyone I could ask for help in acquiring the necessary elements is waylaid by your ‘Elder One’ or the Inquisition,” they explained with a clenched jaw.

“More importantly, how do you think it’ll look to the Inquisition if they find out how I came here? They will think me a traitor, and then I won’t be able to save anyone from what’s to come,” Rook snapped, continuing to jab their finger into Alexius’ chest. “The only way to fix this, for me to save your son, is for you to tell me how I can go back to my own time.”

They were impassioned in a way that Alexius had not seen since in another person before Felix was blighted. As much as he had every reason not to believe them, to think that this was another tormented handed down to him after everything, there was something about Rook that reminded him of himself.

Perhaps it was being worn down or the last remaining shreds of hope somewhere in the depths of his soul, but he simply could not find it within himself to fight them any further.

“It is not a simple process,” Alexius admitted, retrieving a stack of parchment from the desk behind him. “Reproducing the spell will be impossible without the proper focus. The original was confiscated and possibly destroyed, I’ve no idea what has become of it.”

He retrieved his quill and began to scribble the very basics of how he’d created the amulet. “You will have to recreate it yourself. This new arrangement with the Inquisition has allowed me some freedoms, but not enough to do this without risking both our positions.”

As Alexius wrote, Cole appeared in the frame of the door once more. “It’s time to go. They've noticed the guards aren’t where they have to be.”

“Venhedis, already?” Rook cursed, then took what Alexius had written in hand and stuffed it into the pocket of their coat. “I’ll come find you again. Once this is made.”

Swiftly, Rook departed, leaving Alexius alone in his study once more. It hadn’t escaped his notice that they had used a common Tevene curse. If a Tevinter Qunari Hedge Mage was to be the only one between the world, a terrible force worse than Corypheus and a Double Blight… Maker help them all.

**

In the end, Asaaranda had only managed to actually speak with Alexius about actual useful time travel information for the lump sum of five minutes, and he’d spent most of that time talking about fade harmonics and interspatial frequencies that just utterly evaded Rook’s amount of technical magic knowledge.

He’d scribbled down some basic fundamentals of his theory onto some scrap paper for them, before they’d had to scurry off to avoid getting caught by any keen-eyed Inquisition members. Not that it helped them much at all to have physical notes.

Rook hoped to themselves that Cole would be able to read what Alexius had written and explain it back to them. Otherwise, they’d have to risk telling someone else the truth about why they were here. Telling Alexius about the Dread Wolf had already been a significant blow to their cover.

Of course, they’d omitted details. Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain’s escape, the blighting and Venatori takeover of Minrathous, the Blighted Dragons, the fall of Weisshaupt, who the Dread Wolf actually was, and anything to do with their own personal experiences in fighting him.

The Sixth and technically Seventh Blights themselves, however, were pertinent to mention.

Felix was blighted, or tainted if one was to use the correct term for what ailment he possessed. It was undeniably a sore spot for Alexius, and one that Rook had forced themselves to not feel so guilty about pressing.

He’d eventually come around, even if there was some apprehension around Asaaranda’s story that he’d expressed quite plainly. Nonetheless, it was more progress than they’d made in getting back home for months.

Not that they didn’t understand his instincts to feel some great hope for a cure. When Ashur had caught the Taint, it had been a devastating blow to the already scattered Shadow Dragons. For all his power and ability, it was an inevitability that it would kill him without some kind of intervention.

Antoine and Evka had offered him a place among the Grey Wardens for that very reason, not that he’d taken it, the stubborn bastard. Tarquin had been furious with Asaaranda for that, outright blaming them for Ashur’s blighting. They had carried that blame amongst their many other burdens, and in a sense, still did, even if the Ashur of this time wasn’t yet Tainted.

Absolving themselves of that guilt should have started with helping Felix, but like they had told Alexius, it was impossible in the current time. The Grey Wardens were under the jurisdiction of Corypheus. Leliana had already been trying to track them down for months, Blackwall had absolutely no idea about the Wardens’ location despite being one himself, and any of the more notable figures like the Hero of Ferelden had also gone into hiding.

Curing Felix would have to come later, if it came at all. Their main priority had to be putting the papers that Alexius had written away in their room, hidden where no nightingale could find it.

As they went downstairs to the bottom of Skyhold and arrived at their bedroom by the gate, it became apparent that something was off as they approached their bedroom door. There was someone in their room.

“…The Iron Lady, Sparkler, Elfroot, and Rook. There’s plenty of other mages here, I don’t know what you’re worried about,” a voice, undeniably Varric’s, remarked. “You’ve been letting Blondie get into your head too much.”

“I know,” a second, more feminine voice replied. “I’m trying not to let him get to me, but I’m really not finding it easy to relax in this place. You’re certain that they’re not just going to execute me for Kirkwall?”

“Well, they’re letting a Dalish and a Qunari mage lead the rebel mages against Corypheus, so I don’t think you’re high on the priority list, Pen,” he shot back. “We’re all a bunch of heretics here, just ask Chuckles when you meet him.”

“Chuckles?” they gasped in mock offense. “Varric, how could you?”

Varric playfully rolled his eyes and groaned. “What have I done now, Hawke?”

Hawke? As in the Champion of Kirkwall, Pandora Marian Hawke, that was who Varric had brought to the Inquisition and whom he’d asked to borrow Rook’s room for? Asaaranda’s stomach tumbled as awe and a little bit of fear rushed through them at once. They’d taken on the former-Arishok in single combat and utterly destroyed him, as a mage.

They were an icon whose story had reached the ears of all, and now they were in Rook’s living quarters, flirting with the same author that made them famous. This had to be some figment of their imagination, because how the hell else was this their reality?

“Chuckles is my nickname,” Hawke insisted, in a tone that just made them sound like they were pouting deeply. “How could you just give it away like this?”

Varric gave a gentle rumbling response, “You don’t need another nickname, sweetheart. Hawke is your nickname.”

“Hawke is my surname, thank you very much,” they rebutted with a playful huff. “You terrible, terrible man. I’m heartbroken. Does what we have mean nothing to you?”

“Oh, now that’s playing dirty, Hawke,” he chuckled flirtatiously. “You can’t go pulling on the heartstrings like that.”

“I thought you liked it when I play dirty,” they retorted with a grin. “You can’t deny you’ve missed that.”

A short pause and then a sincere reply followed. “You’re right. I can’t.”

Asaaranda felt as though they had wandered into an incredibly intimate moment and they longed desperately to escape it, but they needed to hide their notes from Alexius’ meeting inside their room, lest they be caught carrying such incriminating evidence. And maybe get Hawke’s autograph while they were here.

On the other hand, whatever conversation that both Hawke and Varric were having seemed far too overdue for Rook to possibly think of intruding on. They really should have cleaned their room for Hawke days ago, but it had slipped their mind entirely.

Perhaps this was a sign for them to seek out somewhere else to sleep finally. Skyhold was huge, there had to be somewhere to go.

 After leaving Varric and Hawke to their own devices, Rook decided to have a wander of Skyhold to find somewhere new to sleep. Despite all the many people that called this place home already, not all of the spaces had filled up.

They knew that the Courtyard was being done-up and turned into a herb garden. One of the side rooms there was likely to be free with all the construction going on.

The dormitories upstairs were being claimed by visitors and the like, so Rook left those alone. There was a small worship room filled with an abundance of candles and a statue of Andraste, which Rook also left alone because sleeping under Andraste’s eye felt a little too much.

Not thinking anything of it, honestly considering asking to bunk with the Inquisitor again while Hawke was here, Asaaranda entered one final room.

It was small, smaller than even their room by the gate was, and more of a hallway than anything. But as they wandered inside, briefly observing the room’s suitability for temporary sleeping arrangements – their eye fell upon something that made their heart soar.

Asaaranda couldn’t believe their damned luck. They had all but forgotten that they’d even been looking for one of these in the kerfuffle of everything that had happened in Redcliffe, Haven, and the move to Skyhold.

Now, here they were. With the Skyhold Eluvian, tucked away in a room in the courtyard gardens, unceremoniously covered with a white sheet like it didn’t hold the potential to travel the entire bloody continent.

With a borderline hysterical laugh, Rook ran forward and grasped the sheet in hand and threw it aside to reveal the Eluvian in all its full glory. “You absolute beauty, you. Maker, I can’t believe I forgot about this.”

They placed one hand against the smooth surface of it, feeling the cool and dark glass shudder slightly at the press of their magic but otherwise make no attempt to actually open. Lo and behold, it was dormant.

They hadn’t expected it to be anything else. But it was one more thing gone right. One more step forward, progress after so much time of waiting around for something to happen. They had the Eluvian. They had Alexius’ cooperation.

Soon, they would have the means to return to the Fade in their grasp as well, and it was all thanks to Varric asking a favour for his ‘friend’/almost-definitely-lover.

It all seemed too good to be true.

**

Leliana had become the Inquisition Spymaster for a reason. Aside from her many years of practical experience working with Divine Justinia as her Left Hand, she was a figure who many thought to underestimate.

Right up until her arrows struck true.

She had gathered information on all of the Inquisition members, especially those of significance like the Inner Circle.

Everybody had their secrets, but most were willing to provide at least some kind of cover to save face. It was as though Rook hadn’t even tried, just choosing to provide vague statements and apologetic shrugs that could have led one to any seemingly random conclusion based on mere conjecture and circumstantial evidence.

Their ‘name’ hadn’t turned up anything either. Not a single Qunari Mercenary group between the southern and northernmost points of Thedas had ever had a member known as ‘Rook,’ much less fitting the description of theirs. No towns had stepped up to claim Rook as their own either, despite the notoriety that having ‘the Knight of the Maker’ be from their town would bring. She was at a dead-end.

Leliana needed clarity, and she was determined to get it. Luckily, it seemed she didn’t have to wait long. “Red,” The Iron Bull greeted as he approached. “Here, got a stack of reports for you to look over and revise.”

“Thank you, Iron Bull,” Leliana replied with a polite nod. Her eyes quickly scanned over the reports, just to note what each of them were, when something caught her attention. “One moment,” she called, stopping the Qunari in his tracks. “You’ve written a dedicated report on Rook?”

The Iron Bull shrugged, “Of course. The kid’s a Vashoth Mage that fell out of a rift in the sky that’s now being propped up as a human religion’s holy knight. That’s of great concern to the Ben-Hassrath, even if they don’t close rifts like Inquisitor Sabraen does.”

“’Vashoth?’ Not Tal-Vashoth?” Leliana noted with a cock of her head. “You do not think them a deserter of the Qun, then.”

“They don’t have the right scars for it,” Bull replied simply. “Any mage of their power would have been bound and stitched from the moment their magic became apparent, if they’d been born in Par Vollen.”

Leliana hummed. “I had a feeling. What troubles me is that I have exhausted all possible resources looking into their background. Rook being a deserter of the Qun would at least explain why I am unable to track down their history.”

The Iron Bull clicked his tongue contemplatively. “Hmm. I’ve got my theories. Nothing concrete, yet. I wanna be sure before I report back on that front officially.”

“Understandably so,” Leliana agreed, glancing back over the report for Rook with a contemplative eye. “In which case, I would hold off on sending such a lengthy report on Rook until we have a better image of what their origins are. False information may compromise our arrangement with the Ben-Hassrath, no?”

The Iron Bull narrowed his gaze at Leliana, recognising what was an obvious manipulation attempt. Despite this, he did not protest. “Good point. I’ll combine what we do know into the one about the Herald instead. Sound fair?” he conceded with a grunt.

“Excellent,” Leliana remarked. “Thank you again for your time, Iron Bull.”

Bull made his swift departure, leaving his reports behind, which Leliana tucked under some other books and the like to deal with later. She had intended to deal with her own more pressing work first, if not for the fresh interruption that had appeared once again.

“Hey, Nightingale,” Varric remarked with his typical roguish grin. “What were you and Tiny talking about?”

“Merely discussing reports on the Inquisition,” Leliana replied succinctly. “What did you need, Varric?”

“Well, I just so happened to overhear you and Tiny talking about Rook and I wanted to add my own two coppers into your thoughts here,” Varric explained, wandering over to Leliana’s desk as casually as possible.

“Oh?” Leliana said with a look of intrigue.

“The kid’s got a troubled enough past without us poking around in their business,” Varric insisted with a sigh. “Don’t you think if they were any kind of risk that they would have made themselves a lot less conspicuous?”

Leliana looked at him with suspicion. “You know something, don’t you?” she concluded.

“I put some things together, yeah,” Varric admitted. “I just don’t think it’s worth pushing them, especially not if they are Maker-sent like they seem to be.”

“I would like to believe you, Varric,” she replied. “But to take you at your word leaves us vulnerable to corruption, even enemy spies. They have told us very little about themselves, nothing that explains who they truly are.”

“Good spies have covers, Nightingale,” Varric argued with a sigh. “Hell, even bad spies have some kind of corroborated story to try and hide their sneakiness in plain sight, and they’re not this blatantly bad at lying. To invite this much scrutiny is a death sentence, you have to agree that much.”

Leliana raised a delicate yet scathing eyebrow. “Dare I ask why you’re being so defensive of them?”

Varric threw up his hands in surrender. “Rook’s a good kid. You can push them on it if you really want and think they’re actually any risk, but I’m telling you that in my opinion, they’re not.”

Leliana looked through him, rather than at him with a sigh. It seemed that she had already made up her mind, before the conversation had even started.  “If there’s nothing else, Varric…”

He briefly contemplated bringing up the matter of Hawke, and quietly requesting that Seeker Cassandra not be informed of their arrival, but he figured that he’d already pushed his luck with Rook far too much for one afternoon. He shrugged and tsked quietly as he turned on his heel to go back downstairs. “No, no, I think we’re done here. You know where to find me if you need me.”

As Varric disappeared, Leliana found herself momentarily frustrated. What reason did Varric have to protect them from her? He had no apparent connection them before the Inquisition. There had to be something deeper that she was missing. Relying on the word of the Iron Bull alone to make up her full picture was troublesome.

She needed the eyes of those she trusted. With a quick scribble in Inquisition cipher, she handed a note off to one of her runners – Rosalie – with new orders. Tail Rook, observe them for any suspicious activity, and report back as soon as anything was uncovered.

Whatever Rook was hiding, Leliana intended to find out.

Chapter Text

They’d been at it for close to three hours, and still they’d made absolutely no progress.

“Sorry, I’m supposed to carve what into the stone?”

“It looks like an upside down daisy with a little worm in the middle,” Cole replied. “But the worm is smiling, and there’s rain clouds above it that are spitting lightning.”

“That can’t be it,” Asaaranda groaned. “Let me see the paper again.”

Despite Rook’s sincere desire to suddenly be able to understand Alexius’ eloquent and delicately looping handwriting, it didn’t fix their inability to read whatsoever. Cole’s colourful description of the runes and formulae were as good as they were probably going to get.

After some trial, with several errors, Rook eventually finished the carving according to Cole’s instructions. It was crude, something more of a child’s drawing than a sophisticated arcane engraving, but he was certain that it was correct.

“And you’re sure that’s what Alexius’ instructions said I had to do?” they asked with a grimace.

“It’s what the paper said,” Cole replied earnestly in a way that made it hard to deny him. Rook sighed, stretching their aching shoulders after placing the amulet onto their temporary bedside table. “This will have to do for now. When do you think we’re next going to be able to talk to Alexius?”

Cole gave a shrug and a contemplative hum in response. “I don’t know… Maybe when we get back from the Exalted Plains?”

Asaaranda frowned. “We’re going to the Exalted Plains?”

He nodded simply and replied, “The Inquisitor wants our help.”

“Great. So we’ll be gone at least two weeks then,” Asaaranda sighed dejectedly. “No time to work on the Eluvian or see Alexius for a while.” They tucked the amulet away in the pocket of their robes, and neatly folded the paper from Alexius and stuffed it into the pillow of their bedroll.

Cole was staring through them again with those ghostly green eyes of his. His stares were intense at the best of times, but there was a furrow to his brow that wasn’t typically present.  “What?” Rook questioned with a touch of concern.

“Have to get back, have to make it right. Always made out to be the villain, always the one to blame,” Cole recited, like he was plucking the words right out of the air. “Scared that nothing will be the same when it’s supposed to be fixed. She’ll still be gone when the world is righted.”

Asaaranda gave him a chastising shake of their head. “Cole, I know you want to help, but you don’t need to recite Solas’ thoughts at me when you get through his barriers.”

Cole scrunched up his face, as if to disagree, but found himself cut off by the appearance of the Inquisitor in the doorway. Sabraen had dressed into their finest armour – newly made Dalish Keeper’s robes – done their makeup, and seemingly recently shaved their grown-out undercut. They looked surprisingly cleaned-up for what was close to the middle of the night.  “Apologies for the late intrusion. Are you busy?”

“No, no, by all means, Sab,” Rook replied, like they hadn’t just been conducting secret magic experimentation. “Cole and I were just chatting. Did you need something?”

Sabraen gave an apologetic and gentle smile. “Yeah. Would you two be able to join the party journeying to the Dirthavaren? Sorry, the ‘Exalted Plains.’ I really would appreciate both of your company, given where we’re going.”

“Who else is going?” Asaaranda asked.

“The Iron Bull and Solas will be joining us for the first leg of the journey, and then Cassandra and Dorian for the latter half,” Sabraen explained with a shrug. “We’ve got the numbers to spare for interchanging shifts now, so I figure safety in numbers and whatnot, right?”

“You really need all of us?” Asaaranda chuckled nervously, wondering if they’d suddenly been presented the perfect out. “That’s a lot of people to feed, right?”

“Normally, I’d just take a small party, but there’s a couple different people who have business in the Dirth, and of course, nobody’s available all at the same time,” Sabraen admitted sheepishly. “Plus, it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other. I’ve missed you.” 

Guilt festered in the pit of Rook’s stomach. To Sabraen, it probably looked like Rook had suddenly iced them out for no apparent reason. They’d just been so focused in on their goal that they’d neglected any and all other responsibilities.

Moreover, it was proof that they needed to continue to play the part with the Inquisition. If Sabraen or anyone else got suspicious over their sudden disappearance before they got everything sorted out, it could prove disastrous.

“Oh,” Rook said softly. “Then consider me available and ready to go.”

Sabraen beamed with a smile that lit up the room like sunshine. “Amazing! We’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. Get some rest.”

As the Inquisitor departed, the tension sapped out of Rook all at once. They fell back onto their bedroll with a bone-deep sigh of exhaustion. Another headache was coming on, they could feel it. When they turned their head to bury it into their pillow, their gaze fell upon Cole, who hadn’t moved an inch and was still staring through them, contemplatively.

“Come on, Cole, you heard them. I’ll see you in the morning,” Asaaranda murmured. “Go get some rest.”

The boy hesitated, a pensive expression blossoming across his features, but nonetheless after some silent contemplation, he gave a gentle nod and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Rook turned onto their side, gazing over the dormant Eluvian wistfully. The cool black glass stared back them, unerringly, reflecting the light of the candles around them. As the flames danced upon the wicks, their thoughts fell not onto the Lighthouse nor the members of the Veilguard as it typically did at night, but instead they thought of their family.

For the first few months of Asaaranda’s adoption into the Mercar family, Charon and his wife not had the room to provide them with a proper room nor bed, so they’d slept in the kitchen by the fireplace.

Despite being almost a teenager back then, Asaaranda had been so afraid of the dark that they’d begged their parents to keep the candles lit. Charon agreed, but would carefully come through the kitchen to extinguish them all once they had fallen asleep, only to find them all relit again as if by magic.

What had followed was an argument between their adopted parents about whether they were up for the task of raising a Qunari child who was not only a runaway slave, but one who was a mage.

It was odd to find comfort in the memories of one of the hardest times of their life. Back when their problems had been so personal, and the world didn’t feel quite so impossibly big. Back when their biggest concern had been fitting into a family of human soldiers, rather than gods and blights.

Those memories sat in their mind as Asaaranda Mercar laid under the candlelit Eluvian, and followed them into the Fade as they drifted off to sleep.

**

When Rook arrived at the designated departure time for the Exalted Plains journey, it became apparent exactly who the Inquisitor had spent time and energy dressing up in new fancy armour and delicately applied makeup for.

The Iron Bull. It should have been obvious when Sabraen mentioned he was coming instead of Cassandra.

In the previous iteration of the Inquisition, his relationship with the Inquisitor had stirred quite a controversy across the more conservative circles of Thedas. Not that it had been for any real reason, just that they didn’t like that history’s arguably most powerful Dalish Elf since Arlathan had formed a romantic relationship with a Ben-Hassrath turned Tal-Vashoth mercenary.

Rook was glad to see that their presence in the reiteration of the Inquisition hadn’t caused any drastic changes, if only for the slight voyeuristic joy they got watching Sabraen’s attempts at flirting in-between times when they needed to be the leader.

Once they had actually arrived to the forward camp at the Exalted Plains, the Inquisitor and The Iron Bull had both stopped their playful banter in order to focus on the work ahead of them. Although disappointed to have had their little observations interrupted, Rook quickly found themselves occupied with a familiar face.

As she always did whenever the Inquisitor and their party arrived to a new location, Scout Lace Harding made herself known to the group with a polite bow and a charming smile. Rook hadn’t had the chance to catch up with her since the evacuation of Haven, but the memory of their last interaction still left Asaaranda’s cheeks flush with warmth.

“Hey, Rook. Mind if I pass on the scout’s report to you?” Harding requested with a sheepish grin as she approached. “The Inquisitor’s talking to Rex and I don’t wanna disturb them, but I have to start heading back to Skyhold.”

Asaaranda gave Harding a steady smile and a nod, all while mentally willing their racing heart to slow at the sound of her voice. “Sure thing. But, uh… who’s Rex and why are they taking up the Inquisitor’s time?”

“Oh, Rex is the Requisition Officer! She’s the one who carries out all the requisition orders, makes sure things gets to the right people and such,” Harding explained with a wave of her hand. “And she’s got a really long list this time from what I can tell.”

Asaaranda made a short ‘aha’ in realisation. “Right. That makes sense. Give me the report then, Harding. Wouldn’t want to keep you from heading out,” they remarked.

Harding nodded and gave a smile. “Right. Well, the situation here is volatile, to say the least. Our biggest problem is a group calling themselves the Freeman of the Dales, surprisingly organised rebels who have broken off from both sides of the Orlesian Civil War. That’s not mentioning the typical rifts and whatnot all over the place.”

Rook gave a curt sigh and an off-handed comment. “Rifts, demons, rebels… you and I always seem to run into such dire situations together, don’t we?”

Harding shrugged in reply, “Kinda goes with territory, I think. I don’t love our chances of avoiding this kind of trouble wherever we go next, but we can only hope.”

A snort left Asaaranda in response. “Ah, if only that were the case. Though maybe, if you and I ever end up somewhere nice, we’ll finally stop running into all this trouble.”

Despite Harding’s somewhat grim position on the state of affairs in the plains, this seemed to crack a smile out of her. “If the Inquisition ever sends me to a flower field filled with daisies and buttercups, you’ll be the first one I report to, I promise,” she reassured with a light and airy tone.

The tension brought on by the grim setting of the plains was briefly forgotten, and for those few moments of playful banter between them, that was enough. “Anything else I should relay to the Inquisitor?” Asaaranda asked with a gentle chuckle.

“We’ve had a few reports of apostates up the road near the river, and there’s a Dalish Clan set up near some ruins on the other side of the forests,” Harding reported dutifully. “Other than that, you are all good to go, Rook.”

Asaaranda nodded. “Great. Thank you so much, Harding. I’ll make sure the Inquisitor gets your report. Best of luck on the road back to Skyhold,” they said.

Harding gave a bow as a farewell gesture, then gathered her things and left unceremoniously. Rook waved her off until she was just a dot on the horizon. It was getting easier to act normal around Harding, even if their traitorous yearning heart still leapt up at the sight of her smile.

“Skin dappled with sunspots like stars in the night sky, eyes as green as lush forests, hair running down her back like curtains made of ochre, the rush of a melody joining the racing of two hearts. A longing to make her smile like that again and again,” Cole rambled, like picking pieces of poetry from the air, as he suddenly materialised at Rook’s side.

“Cole!” Asaaranda yelped, more embarrassed than startled. “Maker… How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to see you and Scout Harding going at it,” The Iron Bull said teasingly. “Not that I blame you. Big fan of redheads myself.”

Rook sighed sharply and rolled their eyes. “Thank you, Bull, but Harding and I weren’t ‘going at it.’ She was just giving me the Scout Report for the region.”

“She was giving you something, that’s for sure,” he snorted in his reply. “Shame she had to head off so quick. Might’ve squeezed the two of you into a tent to get to know each other better.”

He winked at them with his uncovered eye and slapped them on the back playfully to convey that it was all in good humour. Nonetheless, Asaaranda flinched and gritted their teeth harshly to avoid snapping at him. “Come on. Rex has to be done giving the requisition list to Sabraen by now.”

The Inquisitor had eventually waved away the overeager requisition officer and was instead looking over their map. Solas stood silently at their side with an undeniably grim expression on his face, like one might appear on their way to a funeral.

“We’ll make it our top priority,” Sabraen promised. “We’ll get your friend back. Whatever else is here can wait.”

Solas nodded numbly, silent but desperation clear in his eyes. Rook frowned. They’d been dragged out here for Solas’ sake? “Your friend?”

“A spirit of wisdom,” Solas explained curtly. “I heard their cry for help from within the Fade, when they were summoned against their will. We’ve come to rescue them.”

“You’re certain everything else can wait?” Rook asked, frowning. “Harding made the situation sound pretty urgent.”

Sabraen nodded determinedly. “I’m certain.”

“It’s mostly Orlesian rebels and rifts we gotta worry about,” Bull pointed out. “Biggest problem might be the apostates up by the river. Harding mentioned there was trouble.”

The Inquisitor’s features fell into a scowl. “That can’t be unrelated.  Come on. We can’t afford to wait around,” they declared.

Despite their distaste for helping their enemy, Rook did not object as Sabraen ordered them all down the road and to the spot Solas had described. They passed the bodies of a few arrow-ridden mages, the undeniable mark of bandits. Some kind of conflict, the scene of some horrific unrelated mugging gone wrong it seemed.

But as they came across a pile of claw-marked and burned bodies, it became apparent to at least one person that the incidents were linked. “No, no, no, no…” Solas shuddered, as horror clawed its way out of his throat.

The corpses were not mages. They were bandits. That could only mean one gut-wrenching possibility. Solas ran ahead of the group, fuelled by reactive grief and adrenaline. He had to see the nightmare for himself, he could not afford the luxury of ignorance, no matter how much it hurt.

He reached the end of the road, and there it was. “My friend…”

Knelt on one knee, head bowed and eyes unfocused, clutching the ground to steady itself was the all-consuming form of a pride demon. Spiked tendrils, scaled skin, razor sharp claws and pointed teeth the size of daggers made up its twisted form. In a mimicry of human breathing, it seemed to pant and groan in agony.

Solas spat a furious curse, unable to direct his sheer offense to anything but the dirt under his shoe. One of his few remaining friends reduced to this… it was enough to break a man.

“Those mages turned it into a demon…” Asaaranda remarked in horror, finally clicking into the situation. “What the hell did they summon it for?”

Slinking out of the shadows was a pale human man with wispy black hair and prominent ears, wearing robes that were undeniably those of the Circle of Magi. The culprits had revealed themselves and in so doing made themselves prey.

With a glower that could flatten a continent, Solas muttered, “Let us ask them.”

“More mages! You’re not with the bandits?” the mage called with relief. “Do any of you have lyrium potions to spare? Most of us are exhausted, we’ve been fighting that demon…”

Solas hissed furiously, “You summoned that demon! Except it was a spirit of wisdom at the time. You made it kill, you twisted it against its purpose!”

Cowering, but pridefully, the mage protested, “I—I understand that it might be confusing to someone who has not studied demons, but after you help us, I can…”

Asaaranda had to suppress the urge to inappropriately laugh at the arrogant prick of a man. He would have no way of knowing who he was talking to, but to have the audacity to proclaim oneself an expert on spirits and demons before a wisdom spirit who had become a man was a truly miraculous breed of ignorance.

“Maker, you have to be kidding me,” Rook muttered under their breath with an amused and horrified shake of their head. Their snide comment caught the pompous mage’s attention as he pleaded, “Listen to me! I was one of the foremost experts in the Kirkwall Circle—”

“Shut up,” Solas interjected. “You summoned it to protect you from the bandits. You bound it to obedience, then commanded it to kill. That is when it turned.”

Shame fell across the mage’s expression, and he hung his head down as he stuttered, “I… yes.”

Perhaps it was misplaced pity or genuine disgust at the pathetic expression of the mage, but Rook couldn’t stand watching him wither before Solas. They proposed, “We can unbind it, surely. These rituals are never permanent, if we break the summoning circle—”

“What? The binding is the only thing keeping the demon from killing us! Whatever it was before, it is a monster now!” the cowardly mage protested.

A deafening roar sounded from behind them, a shriek of undeniable anger and pain that shook the earth with pure emotion. The mages gasped and fled for safety, while the demon struggled against its bindings. Solas became desperate, turned to Sabraen and pleaded with all his might, “Inquisitor, please.”

Sabraen gave a single no-nonsense nod and quickly dashed into action. “We take one pillar each! Put everything you’ve got into breaking them!” they ordered, quickly propelling themselves forward and blasting their own pillar with their staff.

Without question, Cole and The Iron Bull followed suit and each began to tear away at their own pillars. Rook too found theirs and put all their energy into the destruction of the circle, watching as the air became electrified.

The Pride Demon had reached beyond the veil and summoned lightning to shape to its will. Its gaze fell upon Solas, its desired target made plain, as it produced an electrified whip from will alone. In a flourish, the whip rose and fell down upon the back of the elf with a crack that echoed throughout the plains like a scream.

In so doing, the demon helped break Solas’ pillar, allowing him to retreat backwards and assist Cole with his. One by one, each point of the summoning circle was destroyed, and the bindings on the demon began to slip. With a vicious howl of determination, Solas took the end of his staff and thrashed the last standing rocky formation with every bit of strength he had left.

As the final pillar shattered, the grotesque form of the Pride Demon melted away in inky blackness to reveal a ghostly figure with eyes made of pure green light. They sat on the backs of their heels and gave a shuddering sigh of relief.

It was a look of bliss that spoke to the pain of their previous bindings.

Solas rushed to the spirit’s side, and knelt before them with a deeply mournful look. “Lethallin, ir abelas,” he murmured forlornly. He wore the face of one who had lost many, who had gone through the routine of another’s death a countless number of times.

“Tel’abelas. Enasal, ir tel’him,” the spirit replied, in an equally forlorn yet gentle and comforting tone. Every word it spoke seemed to drain it even further, as the magical energy around it began to dissipate into the air. “Ma melava halani. Mala suledin nadas. Ma ghilana mir din’an.”

Solas’ carefully put together expression splintered for a fraction of a second, as he flinched at the spirit’s words in quiet horror. After a beat, with a look of numb resignment, he simply replied, “Ma nuvenin.“

He waved his hands in a simple gesture, causing the waning spirit to crackle and dissipate into the winds that carried it away. After a moment, it was gone. “Dareth shiral…” whispered the mournful Dread Wolf.

Rook went silent, at an utter loss of what to do or say. Cole unusually had no words of comfort to offer, and The Iron Bull simply kept his head down to stay out of the way. The Inquisitor was the first to break the painful silence that had formed.

“Mala falon lasa na hamin, hahren,” Sabraen remarked softly. “Ma melava halani lasa revas.” Though the meaning of the words weren’t immediately clear to Asaaranda, the intent was clear. Comfort, reassurance, and a reminder that Solas had done all that he could for the friend he’d lost.

With a shuddering intake of breath, he rose to his feet and took a few steps towards Sabraen. His expression of numb yet prevalent devastation had made way for a genuine soft smile of disbelief and gratitude. His eyes seemed kinder, his shoulders looser, and his approach much warmer. It was striking to see how much gentler he appeared.

“Ma serannas, da’len,” he said, seemingly comforted by their words.

It did not last long. Upon recognising that the demon was dead, the mages emerged like vermin. “Thank you. We would not have risked a summoning, but the roads are too dangerous to travel unprotected,” the thin-haired big-eared leader of the apostates thanked thoughtlessly.

Making himself known again had been his biggest mistake. Like a switch had been flipped in Solas’ mind, all the kindness and gentle demeanour he’d approached Sabraen with had shattered and left behind the angered and dangerous wolf that Rook was more acquainted with.

“You tortured and killed my friend!” Solas snarled, surging towards the apostates in fury. The tone, the gnashing of teeth, the speed of his approach, and the dangerous crackle of the veil around him made his intent clear.

He had no chains to hold him here. With the opportunity before him, it was inevitable that he would strike for revenge. The offending apostates had killed and in so doing had unwittingly turned the wrath of Fen’Harel upon themselves. They had made themselves his enemy.

The cowardly man and his companions all slinked backwards, protesting desperately, “We didn’t know it was just a spirit, the book said it could help us!”

Sabraen paused, eyes flickering between Solas and the offending mages in contemplation, silently considering their options. Rook knew in all likelihood that Sabraen would allow Solas his quick vengeance, but something inside them viciously protested and they stepped between Solas and the cowering apostates.

Disbelief erupted in his grey-purple eyes, his vitriolic and vengeful glower now directed at Rook instead of the apostates. For this version of Solas, it may have been the first time to be opposed by them, but Rook had stood against their own Dread Wolf all too many times before to flinch at his anger.

As his will seemed to pull for magic beyond the veil, so too did Asaaranda’s. If this came to a genuine fight, Solas would have one, but Rook refused to just hand over more lives to the likes of him. Noticing the shift in energy, Solas began to warn them with a low hiss, “Rook...”

“They made a mistake, that doesn’t mean they deserve to die,” Asaaranda snapped as they unabashedly glared at Solas in turn. Even as they shifted to address Sabraen, their eyes did not leave their opponent. “These mages are arrogant and terrified fools, Inquisitor. That’s all.”

After another agonising interval where it looked like Sabraen might order Asaaranda to step aside, the Inquisitor reluctantly flashed Solas a disapproving look and gently shook their head. “Solas, please.”

For a brief moment, an undeniable look of betrayal appeared in Solas’ eyes, but he smothered it just as soon as it appeared. He scrunched up his face, turned sharply on his heels away from the group, and after a sharp breath throatily muttered, “Never again. I need some time alone. I will meet you back at Skyhold.”

Solas stormed away, making his way through the wilderness until he was eventually out of sight. Discomfort settled across the group, as all parties present found themselves either unable or unwilling to be the first to try and break the tension. Asaaranda too could not even revel in their victory against Solas, for he had looked so broken that to call it such felt wickedly uncomfortable.

Sabraen cleared their throat and turned their attention to the mages. “By order of the Inquisition, you’re to be taken into custody until you can await trial at Skyhold,” they decided firmly. “For the crimes of apostasy.”

The leader of the apostates went to object again, but a sharp glare from Sabraen shut him down immediately. All three of them were ushered back to camp, where the Requisition Officer and other Scouts were informed of the situation so that the apostates could be sent off to Skyhold to await formal trial.

Despite Solas’ absence, there were still many tasks to complete throughout the plains. Addressing the Orlesian Armies, burning body pits, dealing with countless rifts, and scouring through the battlefields for scattered resources or requisitions.

All too soon, the remaining party found themselves at the end of the day with nothing left to do but camp. The Iron Bull and Cole worked together to set up tents and such, whilst Sabraen and Asaaranda handled the campfire and dinner preparations.

Conversation had been scarce for most of the afternoon, but the evening had none of those problems. “Should we consider sending a scout after Solas?” Asaaranda asked whilst in the midst of chopping potatoes. “I don’t love that he’s wandering around on his own out here.”

“He’ll be fine,” Sabraen reassured, albeit uneasily. “He’s travelled on his own for much of his life. I trust him to take care of himself.”

“While he’s clearly in the middle of mourning someone he called a friend?” Asaaranda pointed out with a frown. “I don’t know, Inquisitor. That kinda thing can cloud your judgement, don’t you think? If something happens while he’s out here alone…”

Sabraen frowned and hummed gently. “I see your point. We can send someone out first thing tomorrow morning. Just to keep an eye out,” they conceded, all while shoving bundles of elfroot into the stone cauldron to allow it to wilt.

“You getting worried about old Solas, Rook?” The Iron Bull inquired, as he hammered in one of many stakes for the tents. Asaaranda gave a response that could only be described as an audible shrug.

“A little,” they decided, after an interval of mental contemplation on the best reply. “The way he reacted to the whole thing was kinda intense. I can’t say I’ve seen him act quite like that before.”

Bull shrugged. “Grief changes people. Makes them do dumb or unexpected things. He at least had the sense to back down after Sabraen pulled his head in,” he noted plainly, then directed his shrew eye in Rook’s direction. “Stepping between him and that mage was a dangerous move, though.”

“I wasn’t gonna let him kill them,” Asaaranda protested with a snort to hide their sudden unnerve. “Like I said earlier, they’re idiots, but people don’t deserve to be killed for being idiots.”

This answer seemed to satisfy The Iron Bull, as he quickly turned his attention back to setting up tents. Despite the fact that it had been such a run of the mill conversation, Asaaranda found themselves lingering on it during the remainder of the evening and well into the hours of the night.

They needed time to think and they knew of at least one way to get it. Once the others had settled into their bedrolls, Asaaranda took the first opportunity to slip away from camp and head out on a late night stroll under the cover of darkness.

Several thoughts occurred to them as they wandered away from camp and through the wilderness. For starters, they decided that the Exalted Plains truly were a series of desecrated shitholes. So much of the land was dead or dying, the settlements that had once existed there had been destroyed, and the only places one could call even an echo of civilisation were the trenches and battlements filled with soldiers for the Orlesian Civil War.

This place had seen so many hardships, more wars than Asaaranda could possibly count, and carried so much deeply painful history that it hurt to look at. They wondered about all the people who had lost someone on these lands, all the people who had grieved someone they loved in the very same spot that the Dread Wolf himself had.

On that same trail of thought, The Iron Bull’s words rang in Rook’s head like a death-tolling bell. ‘Grief changes people and makes them do dumb or unexpected things.’ They supposed that was a fair enough assessment, even if it didn’t justify the aforementioned dumb or unexpected things.

Bull couldn’t have known how close to home he’d struck with Asaaranda, but it still unnerved them to know that someone had come so close to the heart of it all. They attempted to banish their renewed nerves by continuing on their journey further along the road until they stumbled across something that caught their attention.

The path diverged from the typical road and led to a dipping miniature valley. As Rook peered down the path, they spotted a caved in grotto of some kind, carefully guarded by a pristine statue of Fen’Harel.

Like so many others, it was a simple and unassuming wolf statue. One that had popped up around Thedas, as a symbol of worship for the hero that Solas had once been to his people, rather than the monster that he had become.

It brought Asaaranda a strange sense of comfort to see one of these again. Like in a way, they hadn’t woken up in a world not their own. There were some comforts, some familiarities. The presence of the Dread Wolf was that much at least. In a sense, it was a way to talk to the Solas of their own time and work through some of the thoughts racing through their head like they’d once done in the Lighthouse.

“I’m not sorry you weren’t allowed to kill them,” Asaaranda remarked, addressing the statue with a frown. “That doesn’t mean I’m not sorry about your friend, though. They didn’t deserve such a fate.”

The visage of Fen’Harel seemed to appraise them, despite lacking any discernible pupils to do so with. It did so without judgement, without scorn, just simple intrigued assessment as it sat atop a block of marble and graciously guarded the entrance to the grove.

Rook sighed, leaning back against the base of the statue to sit at Fen’Harel’s paws. “I do get why you wanted those mages dead. I’d be a hypocrite if I said that I wouldn’t do the same in your position. I just… It was an accident, you know? People don’t deserve to die for being stupid, no matter how pompous and self-righteous they are.”

They gazed up at the stars, looking just beyond them and towards the veil. “When we get back to Skyhold, I promise Sabraen will see about getting those mages a harsh but fair sentence. Something like community service or what have you.”

A contemplative yet bitter hum fell from their lips. “What the fuck am I doing here? I could be praying to the Maker, or whatever real Qunari pray to, and instead I’m taking to a statue like the real you will actually hear me.”

Asaaranda chuckled bitterly. “Not that you’d listen to me, if you could hear me. Don’t think I didn’t notice you manipulating me into giving you the answer you wanted when we were dealing with the First Warden at Weisshaupt. That was fucked up, by the way.”

They sighed longingly. “Fucking hell. I can’t believe I miss those days. You stuck in my head, me running around across Thedas after Elgar’fuck and Ghila’twit. Living in your sad Fade mancave with all the others in the Veilguard. Good times, don’t you think?”

Stubbornly, the statue of Fen’Harel did not respond. Solas would have had a witty response, a cutting jape, or even some kind of chastising reminder of the gravity of the situation they faced. Unfortunately, the statue was not Solas, nor was it stuck in Rook’s head, and therefore it had no obligation to put up with them as he did.

Asaaranda huffed petulantly at the statue. “You’re just stubborn as the real Solas. Damned statue. Could at least do me the favour of a cleverly veiled insult at my intelligence or wit. Bet you’re doing this on purpose just to piss me off,” they proposed with a pout.

Still, it did not budge. Even if it had had the capacity to do so, Asaaranda suspected that it would not have humoured their attempts at a conversation like this. Even if the statue could mourn the loss of another friend – one whose passing had not been the fault of the sculpture’s effigy – they doubted that it would have found comfort in Rook’s comedic jabs.

“Would it help if we held a funeral for your friend? Give you closure with their passing?” Rook pondered mournfully. “I know the whole Brazier thing helped Bellara when Cyrian… well. In my time, at least. I don’t know.”

Asaaranda pushed themselves off from the feet of the statue with a sigh. “There’s not a lot I can say to fix this, or do to make it better. I just hope that your friend rests easy, wherever they are. And I really am sorry, for what it’s worth.”

For the briefest of moments, as they glanced at the statue that stood before Ghilan’nain’s Grove during their departure, Rook seemed to have spotted the facsimile of Fen’Harel faintly and impossibly weeping in response to their condolences.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or some other equally mundane thing, but none of that mattered in Rook’s mind. They had cleared their mind of their spiralling thoughts and in so doing, finally exhausted themselves enough to return to camp.

Chapter Text

Since his last reports were dropped off to Leliana, The Iron Bull had made his investigation of Rook a top priority. He hadn’t spent a ton of time around Rook – an unfortunate side effect of their schedules not aligning – and it had meant he hadn’t truthfully gotten a good read on them.

He’d agreed with Red on the fact that it was unusual for someone like Rook to have no physical evidence of their background or history, but there were more than a few folks in the Inquisition who had a similar issue.

Cole and Solas came to mind immediately, but they at least had cover stories. Blackwall was shifty, given all that was going on with the Wardens. Unlike the others, Rook was just… well, they presented themselves as unremarkable even if they were anything but. They held a desperation about them that made it clear they were hiding something.

It was incredibly evident that they didn’t know what they were doing, however. If not for the blatant simple mistakes they made, he might have thought them another Ben-Hassrath, or some other kind of spy.

“Where’d you go last night?” The Iron Bull inquired casually. “You weren’t here when I woke up for my watch shift. I thought something might have happened to you.”

Bull watched as Rook froze, their expression shamelessly shifting into one of guilt and slight panic. “Oh, uh… I went for a walk. Just couldn’t sleep, you know?”

He hadn’t followed them, knowing that wasn’t the sort of work he was suited to. Stealth at his size was more than just a minor inconvenience at the best of times. Yet seeing the way they’d immediately floundered and panicked made him wish that he had.

Something had gone on that night that got at the core of their secret. They were being so painfully obvious that Bull might have thought it was an act. He decided to keep prodding at them, see what else they’d let slip in just body language and stuttering words alone.

“Must’ve got a good lay of the land, right? Spot any more rifts or Freeman camps we gotta worry about?” he asked with a cock of his head. “Just figured with how long you were gone, we might have a better picture to work with.”

Rook visibly grew more nervous, everything about them tensing in such a manner that Bull could hear the subtle hitch to their breath. “No, no, nothing like that. Some… wolves, maybe. Lost sight of where they went though.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie, but there was an odd twist in their expression like they’d let something slip that they hadn’t meant to. For such an innocuous statement, it looked like Rook’s entire world had shattered underneath the surface of their attempted repression.

He filed that away for later, knowing it had to be a piece of the puzzle that explained who or what Rook was.

The rest of the morning proceeded unremarkably, except for the arrival of one Dorian Pavus, who had shuffled some things around in his schedule in order to replace the departed and grieving elven apostate who had absconded from his duties.

It wasn’t that Sabraen Lavellan needed an additional mage, not between them and Rook who were both seasoned casters in their own rights despite no apparent Circle of Magi affiliation, it was just that they seemed to prefer the company of mages. Even if one of those said mages was a Tevinter, which one might have thought unusual for a Dalish elf.

Bull noted that Rook seemed quite comfortable with Sabraen as well, though less so with Dorian. It wasn’t animosity or even plain bigotry, despite the obvious difficult relations between the Imperium and the Qunari.

Yet the discomfort was palpable. It gave credence to the Vashoth mage theory – Rook being born outside of the Qun with rebel parents who left Qunari territory – since Tal-Vashoth often still spoke ill of Tevinters, just based on their experiences in the war.

It was that thought that followed Bull well into the rest of the day, especially the more mundane interactions.

“Rook, I’d been meaning to catch up with you and chat,” Dorian hummed, interjecting into the otherwise silent walk through the plains. “I received a letter from Alexius’ son, Felix. Thought you might like to know the details.”

Rook frowned. “Is that right?”

“He held an address in the senate recently, gave several praises all about you and the Inquisitor,” Dorian delightfully informed them.

“Felix spoke about me in the magisterium?” Rook asked, desperation and panic seeping into their voice.

“Just to show off the good that you and the Inquisitor are doing with the Inquisition, discuss what a threat the Venatori pose to Tevinter, et cetera. As I understand, it was quite a glowing testimonial, in fact,” Dorian shrugged haphazardly.

The Iron Bull watched silently from behind them, observing as Rook’s entire body language suddenly shifted to the way it did when they were under attack.

“Did he mention me by name?” Rook implored, whilst desperately trying to sound casual. “Or was it just by title?”

“Both, I’d imagine,” Dorian hummed. “Why?”

“Venhedis,” Rook hissed under their breath. As bile crept up their throat, Rook swallowed harshly and avoided Dorian’s eye. “Pass on my thanks to him, then.”

“His illnesses caught up with him, I’m afraid,” Dorian replied grimly. “Though, I’m sure he would have appreciated the gesture, nonetheless. He was always among the best of us.”

Rook flinched. “...oh.” In a single word, Rook had retreated back within themselves, but The Iron Bull had already broken through and gotten exactly what he’d hoped from that little interaction.

‘Venhedis.’ That single word had damn-well sealed the deal. Rook had to be Tevinter, or at least closely connected with the Imperium. The ease with which it fell from their tongue indicated far too much familiarity with the Tevene language to be a mere cover or coincidence. And that wasn’t all he’d learned in a single curse – their accent thickened around it, allowing him to pick it apart and nail down the exact region they’d come from.

Minrathous, the beating heart of the Tevinter Imperium.

Few Tal-Vashoth made Tevinter their home on purpose. Rivain was significantly more popular, given their nation’s unusually amicable relations with the Qunari people. Those particularly desperate to get far away from the Qun would flee to Antiva or the Free Marches, but it was very rare that any would deliberately set up their lives in the Imperium.

The likelihood that Rook had Tal-Vashoth parents who left the Qun and deliberately settled in the Imperium was low. The chance that they had done so, and settled in a major capital city like Minrathous was even lower. It wasn’t impossible, so he wouldn’t eliminate that from his search entirely, but he knew where to direct his Ben-Hassrath contacts.

His starting lead had just fallen into his lap. He’d have a proper report to give to Leliana within a few weeks or less. Just one more slip up like this from Rook and he’d have the whole damn picture.

**

There was nothing to be done. It had already happened. Even if Asaaranda could go back and erase Felix’s words from the mind of every magister, it would be ultimately fruitless.

Truthfully, they weren’t even sure why they were so freaked about Felix’s address. Anybody who would have known of them in this time never knew them as Rook. The possibility of their family, their former Master, or anybody recognising them by that nickname alone was practically nothing.

And yet fear gripped them greatly. No matter how unlikely it was that Rook – the so-called ‘Knight of the Maker,’ – would ever be connected with Asaaranda Mercar, or the slave that they once were, they still felt awfully exposed and in more danger than they had been in since their arrival.

The people of the Magisterium had been told of them. Their former Master would have been amongst them, hearing of their deeds and of the Inquisition like their presence hadn’t changed everything.

Their father may well have heard about them in passing, given his relative political importance as a Soporati. Their father had been in and out of their thoughts of late, would he even recognised that this was what became of them?

Had they been blipped from the minds of those who knew them or would Felix’s address potentially reveal where they’d been? How much would it change? Could they even return home without their time becoming drastically different?

Asaaranda felt nauseous just beginning to contemplate all the implications.

Alexius undoubtedly would have been informed by now. Asaaranda hoped against all hopes that his grief hadn’t consumed him, that he still held onto the chance that Rook would be able to save Felix by helping them.

They’d finished the amulet, but without Alexius’ help to get them over the final hurdles, it would be useless to them and they would have to start over from square one. They just hoped that when they got back to Skyhold, he’d still be in any shape to help them.

Not that they would blame him if he wasn’t.

A few days after the Exalted Plains incident with Solas, Asaaranda returned to Skyhold. There were a variety of tasks that took up the Inquisitor’s time, namely tracking down Pandora Hawke and their Warden friend in Crestwood, making preparations for the upcoming Ball at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral, as well as any other little problems that came up from within the Inquisition’s Inner Circle and their typical diplomatic duties.

It gave Rook the chance to seek out Alexius once more, to hopefully finish this once and for all.

As they had done previously, Rook went up to the outer walls of Skyhold to enter the attic of the Herald’s Rest where Cole spent most of his time. When they arrived, he was leaning over the railing that overlooked the lower floors of the tavern.

His wide brim hat was nowhere to be seen, leaving him vulnerable and unshielded. It occurred to Rook that they had never seen him look quite so boyish as he did there. It was not a mere matter of age – for he had always looked young – but of how undeniably feasibly human he looked like the ghostliness that was typically characteristic of him had disappeared with the hat.

It set Rook on edge to see him in such a way, but they had to push through their trepidation and get out of here soon.

“Smell of vellum and rosemary oil. Light of the candles growing dim, the sound of his laboured breathing in the next room over. How many sleepless nights spent looking for a solution? How much time wasted for it all to be for nothing? He thought this time would be different. A flicker… then gone. Extinguished by the wind, taken. No more candle left to burn,” Cole murmured grimly, a mournful frown besetting his entire frame.

“Cole?” they called out. “Are you busy? I was hoping we could go back to our plan to get me home now that we’re back.”

He did not respond, just continued to stare down at the crowds of people in the Herald’s Rest. They had gathered to listen to a song played by Maryden the Bard, a mournful ballad about the fall of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. “Maker… have you left me here? Temple, sacred ashes. Tragic… Mark upon our land. Sky fall, let darkness reign on thee,” she sang like a songbird, willing all who passed to listen.

Cole too, it seemed, was entranced. He couldn’t look away no matter how hard Rook tried to get his attention.

“Cole? Can you help me with Alexius again?” Asaaranda requested, gently waving their hand in front of his pale ghostly eyes, despite their growing frustration. “I can’t do this alone, remember? Please? This is the only way I can make things right.”

His gaze was set unerringly on Maryden, as he spoke again, “Scattered to the winds, lost and torn asunder. Yearning. Can’t turn back on the path now, all their hopes rest upon my shoulders. This is the only way…”

“Cole,” Rook insisted again, snapping harsher this time. “Please. I need you.”

“The guards are distracted today,” Cole informed them, once Maryden’s song had ended and changed to another equally mournful tune. “Bucket of water falling on the Ambassador, wobbling table leg in the Commander’s Office, easy to forget the lone Magister.”

Asaaranda sighed to release their growing tension. “Great. Okay. Can you make sure they stay that way while I speak with him? Like we did last time?”

He nodded reluctantly, then disappeared before their eyes, presumably to go deal with the guards. Leaving nothing to chance, Asaaranda rushed out of the Herald’s Rest attic once more and towards the mage tower where Alexius’ office resided.

When they arrived, his back was turned to the door and his gaze fixated on the wall in front of him. He did not turn to face them, nor make any such attempt to adjust his body language to properly greet them. “Rook,” Alexius called, monotonously. “How goes your efforts?”

“The amulet is done. What do I do from here?” they demanded, rather than asked, as they placed their carved amulet onto the desk in front of him.

Alexius hummed as he picked it up into his hands, scrutinising the crude trinket with dejection. “The runes aren’t quite right. But no matter. I was able to reproduce another such amulet myself.”

He produced another nearly identical necklace from a box underneath his desk and handed it to Rook. “Now, it is merely a matter of casting the spell with intent. Like you would any other. Draw upon the Fade, let it shape your will and make a path manifest.”

“…that’s it?” Rook asked with suspicion. “It’s that simple?”

Alexius nodded wearily. “Make your path home, Rook.”

Reaching for the Fade was like breathing to Asaaranda. They didn’t need to think about it to do so, and often times thinking about it made it more difficult. Yet they found themselves almost choking on air as they tried to pull from the depths of their power and create a path home.

No matter how much they tried, nothing seemed to change. Alexius’ amulet glowed a sickly green and spun around wildly, sputtering crazy magic all over the place…

Yet nothing happened. After a few moments, it just ceased to do anything at all.

Rage consumed them immediately, their vengeful glare turned onto Alexius for daring to deceive them. “It didn’t work! What did you—"

“I did not entirely believe that you would help me,” Alexius informed them. “After our last discussion, your talk of a ‘Double Blight’ unnerved me, but it seemed an obvious manipulation. When I received word that Felix had… gone to the Maker’s side, I thought that I could trust you even less than before.”

Asaaranda went to protest, but the Magister continued. “So, I worked on my own amulet. I thought that I might assume control over our arrangement, go back to a time before the Conclave and undo this mess myself. But it was not to be.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Rook hissed furiously.

“There is but one difference between our world today and our world back when I retrieved the Rebel Mages in Redcliffe,” Alexius explained wearily. “In one world, there is an unprecedented magical phenomena unlike anything the world has ever seen, capable of shaping reality itself in ways previously thought impossible through the sheer amount of magic pouring out. And in another, it is sealed shut.”

He shook his head sadly as he continued. “I had theorised that the amulet would not work without the Breach, but I knew for certain that to be the case when I tried that very spell myself not even a week before now. It explained how I was only ever able to go back up until a certain point. I could go no further than the moment of the Breach’s creation, thus I could not save my son.”

“Now… with the Breach closed, time travel is no longer possible,” Alexius declared. “We have both missed our chance to go either forward or back.”

No… No, that couldn’t be. That had to be a lie. It was a lie, they were proof of that.

“If that’s the case, then how the hell am I here, Alexius?” Rook snarled. “In my time, the Breach has been closed for more than a decade! In my time, the Inquisitor doesn’t have the damn mark anymore, there are no more rifts to seal, it’s all done and dusted away. Yet I’m still fucking here.”

“Indeed you are,” Alexius agreed with a disdainful sneer. “Unless there was another Breach created in your own time, it should be impossible for you to truly be from a decade in the future.”

Another… Breach.

If Alexius was telling the truth, if truly the Breach was the only source of power that allowed for Rook to travel back to the time of the Inquisition, that could only mean one deeply horrifying thing. Asaaranda’s stomach lurched dangerously. “Wait… that’s it. Fuck, how could I have missed that?”

The Magister appraised them curiously, clocking their sudden change in demeanour almost instantly. “What have you missed?”

“If time travel is only possible when there’s a Breach in the Veil, then that means he’s already won,” Asaaranda realised in sharp bursts of horror. “The only way I could possibly be here is if the veil has already fallen. Even if I could go back, then… it wouldn’t matter. He’s already done it.”

All their friends would be dead. They’d failed them all. Every decision they’d made, everything they had ever done in an attempt to stop the Dread Wolf had been for nothing. The Crows, the Shadow Dragons, the Lords, the Wardens, the Mourn Watch, all of them would be scrambling to do something and it would be for nothing.

Varric was dead, Neve was dead, Lucanis, Davrin, Emmrich, Bellara, Assan, Manfred – their own Lace Harding, all dead and it would be completely in vain. Solas had won and the Veil was fallen.

That was the only for any of this to work and for Rook to be here right now.

Asaaranda’s knees buckled under their own weight. To have built up such a false hope, to think that they had a chance to fix their mistakes, only to lose it immediately… It was too much.

A horrified shriek wracked their body like a battle cry, as all the grief they hadn’t allowed themselves to feel for months came flooding in all at once. Their sobs became more like full-body heaves of despair and their limbs were no longer able to keep them upright, leaving them writhing on the floor below. There could be no words to describe the physical weight that they felt plummeting down onto them, nor the utter sense of painstaking failure.

Alexius, perhaps knowing that any words he could give would prove just as unwise as they would be unhelpful, stood and watched in abject horror as Rook fell apart before them.

The commotion proved significantly dramatic enough to gain the attention of some of Skyhold’s occupants, those passing by who might not have heard the two of them if not for Asaaranda’s wails of dismay echoing throughout the entire tower.

Half a dozen or more faces of people Rook could not recognise in their heightened state came bursting through Alexius’ office door, weapons drawn and voices raised in alarm. “What’s going on here?!”

One figure gasped, pointing at them on the floor dramatically, “Ser Knight! What has the magister done to you?”

“Quick, somebody call the guards! Guards!” a nobleman cried.

Two others stepped forward, kneeling down to Rook’s level to try and help them to their feet. “Ser Knight? Rook, can you hear us? What’s happened?”

Asaaranda howled and slapped the offending hands away furiously. “Get away, all of you!”

They scrambled up off the floor and pushed through the crowd to flee to safety, despite the calls of concern. Their mind could no sooner direct them than they could form a proper thought of where to go, so their body instinctually lead them back to their bedroom by the drawbridge.

Hawke had already left the place weeks ago, leaving them the entire room to themselves. When the door slammed shut, Rook took Alexius’ amulet in hand and screamed in fury as they threw it against the wall. “Vishante kaffas!”

It shattered with a pleasing crash, echoing throughout the tiny room like an explosion in a library. Panting restlessly, Asaaranda turned their excess energy onto the books and other belongings of theirs scattered around the room. Each clang and bang sapped them a little more, until the fight had fallen from them entirely.

There could be no more tears. For the grief of losing their entire world had been replaced with unerring numbness. They couldn’t feel a damn thing. Nothing felt real in that moment, much less themselves or the world around them.

Nothing felt like it even mattered. What reason did Rook have to keep pretending.

Decisively, they retrieved their purse from among the chaos of their destruction and quietly but assuredly strutted towards the Herald’s Rest. If anyone in there was looking for them, they did not make it known, as they slipped through the door and headed straight in.

Rook tossed their bag of gold onto the bar, then promptly vaulted themselves up onto an empty seat. Cabot raised an eyebrow and greeted with his typical rumbling tone, “What can I do for you, Ser Knight?’

“About eight rounds of Sun Blonde Vint-1,” they requested with a grim expression. “And a Ferelden ale or five.”

Cabot’s expression and harsh but neutral tone did not shift. “That supposed to be for the whole tavern or just for yourself?”

Asaaranda shrugged and decided, “Cover my rounds first and then whatever’s left in the bag afterwards can go to covering everyone else’s drinks for the night.”

“Alright,” Cabot replied plainly. He swept the bag off of the table and barely even reacted to the sheer amount of coin inside. With a clink and a thud, Rook was handed their pint of ale and the entire bottle of Sun Blonde Vint-1 with an empty whiskey glass.

“We don’t have any catsbane for the Vint, in case you were wondering,” Cabot added markedly.

Rook snorted with a shake of their head. “It’s fine. Thanks Cabot.”

Cabot made himself scarce, leaving Rook alone with their drinks. They took the whiskey glass in hand and summoned a half-assed ice spell to chill it until it was painful to the touch. They then poured the sun blonde in until it was nearly up to the rim of the glass.

Asaaranda raised the glass up to the sky in a silent toast to the end of the world and sculled the spirits like they hadn’t spent an entire five months’ salary on it. Coin didn’t matter to them. They’d already failed, what more could they possibly give that wouldn’t be taken away again in an instant?

There was no point to it all. Dread Wolf take them all, but Solas had already won and he didn’t even know it yet. There was no way for Rook to get back home, no way for them to save their friends, and no way to convince the Inquisition of the danger Solas presented.

They were just one person. They were never going to be able to face a God alone.

After downing their first glass of the sun blonde, Asaaranda took the ale in hand and took in several mouthfuls until their head swam from the headiness of it all. They alternated between the spirits and the ale, in a combination that was more about becoming intoxicated quickly than enjoying the flavours.

“Rook?” a heartbreakingly familiar voice called.

Asaaranda didn’t turn around, but they knew who had approached. Just another cruelty to add to a series of all the others. “…Varric.”

“So, you wanna tell me why you’re drinking enough to kill a man half your size in the middle of the day?” he asked, as he wandered over to them with a frown.

“And what would be the point of that?” they grumbled, taking another several mouthfuls of their ale until the pint was empty. Cabot silently grabbed the empty glass and refilled it with  more ale. Asaaranda took it back in hand and downed half of that before Varric even had a chance to blink.

“Andraste’s ass, Rook, you wanna take it easy on the ale?” he gawked.

Asaaranda scoffed weakly. “Don’t act like you’re concerned for me. We’re not friends, Varric. You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“I know that misery loves company, and that you’re acting pretty damn miserable. Whatever’s troubling you isn’t worth drowning yourself over,” Varric shot back.

“Why are you here?” Asaaranda spat venomously. “Every time something happens, you just appear out of nowhere with some playful anecdote or poignant saying like it’s going to fix anything. What thinly veiled vashedan are you hoping to impose on me this time?”

“When have I ever imposed any kind of anecdote on you?” Varric protested, genuine offense making its way into his voice. Rook didn’t answer, just kept their head down and kept their gaze firmly fixed on their glass.

A beat of silence passed between them before Varric spoke again with a sigh. “The kid mentioned you were upset and that you needed someone you trust to come check on you before you did something stupid. So, I don’t know. Why do you think I’m here, Rook?”

Cole. Of course he’d have known. Of course he’d have told Varric, why wouldn’t he? It was his role; what else were spirits of compassion supposed to do? Spirits of Compassion wanted to help and heal the hurt, but this was a hurt that couldn’t be healed.

Rook wasn’t sure whether it was burning anger or all-consuming sadness that took them in that moment. They couldn’t be sure whether they were upset with Cole for getting Varric or grateful to be finally seen by someone who understood.

Either way, tears burned at their eyes and their throat tightened painfully. “…I don’t know,” they lied, unable to conceal the sob that slipped past their lips. “I don’t know why Cole thinks you need to be here for me.”

Against their will, their whole entire body trembled as they tried to swallow their cries. The floodgates had opened and it was impossible to close them again. Tears ran like waterfalls down their cheeks, which they pathetically tried to hide by just angling their face downwards.

Varric sighed deeply. “Ah, Rook… Come on. I think you’ve had enough.”

He placed a hand on the small of Rook’s back, then carefully removed the pint of ale and bottle of sun blonde from their grasp. Once the alcohol was extracted, he tucked himself under their arm and pulled them to their feet to carry them out of the bar. Despite their whine of protest and much larger size, he was able to do so with ease.

He’d done the same for Hawke over the years, and Rook was only a little bigger than them. With strength to rival any warrior, Varric hauled Rook out of the Herald’s rest and braced them against him. Each step felt like an impossibility, but he persevered. Rook, on the other hand…

“I fucking failed you, Varric…” Asaaranda sobbed openly. “I failed everyone. I’ve lost everything and it’s all my fault. I don’t know how I’m supposed to fix this. What am I supposed to do to make this right?”

Varric furrowed his brow in concentration, as he approached the set of stairs leading down to the lower grounds of Skyhold. “Right now you can help me make sure you don’t go ass over teakettle down these stairs, okay, Rook?”

They nodded weakly, attempted to straighten themselves up, and began to follow Varric’s lead down the stairs. Each step felt like a cliff-face that they had to scale, but eventually they settled into a rhythm. Right, left, right, going one step at a time – both feet stopping on each step to steady their balance until they were on solid ground.

It was only another couple of metres to their room.

With all his might, Varric pushed down the door and hauled Rook over his shoulder to place them upright on the foot of their bed. He handed them his waterskin and gently guided them to take a drink, which they did so with a grumpy murmur. Rook promptly handed it back when they were done and dramatically fell back against their bed with a groan.

“There we go. Maybe try and sleep this shit off,” Varric hummed, gently pulling the covers over them. “Just take it easy, Rook.”

“…Asaaranda,” they said, like it didn’t change everything. “My name is Asaaranda. Rook’s just a nickname. I think it’s a chess reference or something... I don’t know, I’ve never played it.”

Varric nodded gently, like he hadn’t just heard every secret that they’d kept concealed for months. “Asaaranda. Rest up, okay?”

Asaaranda was loathe to protest, as the exhaustion of grief and the thick intoxication of their series of bad choices pulled them down into swift unconsciousness.

When their heavy breaths slowly transitioned to soft snores, Varric briefly contemplated leaving them to just rest alone. But Cole’s insistence that Rook – Asaaranda, as it turned out – needed him to be there for them had gotten to him.

And so, for their sake, he stayed.

Chapter Text

Sharp, searing pain that seemed to reverberate through their skull like a warhammer on a gong was the first thing Asaaranda experienced, as they slowly but surely came to awareness from their drunken slumber.

The second sensation was that of overwhelming nausea, no doubt in protest of the amount of alcohol that had surely amounted to their entire body weight that they had consumed the night before.

Last of all, when Rook finally had the capacity to register anything outside of their actual body, they blinked their eyes open and strained against the light to see the reassuring sight of Varric Tethras sat at their desk, just simply writing away.

If they hadn’t felt so overwhelmingly unwell, they might have wanted to rush forward and embrace him. As it was, all they could do was weakly call out for his attention. “…Varric?”

That did the job, as the man in question put down his quill and turned in the chair to face them with a pitying grin. “Hey there, kid. Sorry for the intrusion, had to make sure you actually made it through the night.”

Rook’s persistent headache make itself known at his words, throbbing against their temple like an army marching relentlessly. They shakily tried to rise up onto their arms, but soon found themselves sinking back into the bed with a groan.

“Easy, Rook, easy,” Varric called, hopping over to their side to keep them from hurting themselves. “You’re not looking too hot. Probably still full of booze, by the smell of things. How are you feeling?”

“Kaffas, I feel like shit,” they replied, groaning in pain. “Everything hurts and I’m dying, Varric.”

“You’re just hungover,” he rebutted lightly. “Happens to the best of us after an entire bottle of Sun Blonde Vint-1 and a couple pints of ale.”

Rook groaned again, turning their head away from him and muttering, “Fuck, don’t even say those words to me right now. I don’t want to even think about alcohol ever again.”

The dwarf rolled his eyes and got up from Rook’s bedside to retrieve something from their desk. It was glass of some kind of strong-smelling green juice that made Rook’s eyes water as the scent wafted over to them.

“Andraste’s tits, what is this?” Rook winced, mild disgust appearing across their face.

“I used to make this for Hawke, back in the day. It might burn going down, but it’ll settle your stomach and stop the headache. They swear by this stuff, says nothing cures a hangover quite like it. Well, except for the Hanged Man’s breakfast,” he reassured, as he handed them the glass. Then after a moment, he added an entirely unapologetic, “Sorry. I don’t mean to ‘impose another unwanted anecdote’ on you.”

Asaaranda grimaced guiltily, hungover shame hitting them all at once. “Fuck, I forgot I said that. I’m sorry, I… actually really like your stories, Varric. Especially Hawke’s.”  

“Yeah? Which parts?” he asked with an inquisitive arch to his brow.

They shrugged with a bashful expression. “Hard to pick. But I guess… the way that Hawke always seems to get back up, no matter what they’re faced with. It’s the way that they make you think you can do anything, just because they did.”

Asaaranda took a long slow sip of the concoction he’d handed them, grimacing at the acrid flavours of elfroot, deep mushroom, and lemon juice all mixed together. It did in fact burn going down, but Rook could feel the discomfort in their stomach settling down almost instantly.

“Maker, that’s…” they began as they were wracked with coughs. “Really strong, but… it’s helping. Thank you, Varric.”

He gave them a nod of acknowledgement, humming gently but not properly responding to their actual statement. Instead, he said, “You know, Rook… this has been bothering me for a while now, so I just gotta ask. How do you know the Tale of the Champion?”

Rook cocked their head in confusion, allowing Varric to keep talking. “Cause, I remember you saying that you’d never read it, but there’s things you know about the story that just can’t be something you heard in passing.”

Asaaranda blinked dumbly. “I… um.” The hangover had claimed most of their ability to think properly, so they could not offer anything in their defense.

“Well?”

“…a friend told it to me,” they decided, settling on the truth rather than an intricate lie. “I wasn’t lying when I said I never read it. Didn’t mean I’ve never heard the story.”

“I didn’t accuse you of lying,” Varric pointed out. “But you’ve still got the perfect excuse lined up?”

“It’s not an excuse,” Asaaranda objected. “It’s the truth.”

“Rook, I think you’re a good kid,” he clarified. “Whatever you’ve got going on has clearly put a significant weight on your shoulders, but it’s becoming increasingly obvious that you are terrible at hiding it.”

Rook went silent, not out of agreement, just out of determination to prove him wrong.

“I’m not saying you have to tell me everything. I’m just saying… I’m not the only one who’s noticed something’s up. Tiny and Nightingale are the main ones onto your case, but at this point, I’m pretty sure everyone in the Inner Circle knows you’re hiding something big,” Varric informed them with a sigh.

“What do you mean by that?” Asaaranda asked in alarm, heart-racing in their chest. “I haven’t said anything to anyone, how can they think something’s wrong?”

Varric gawked at them in disbelief. “Kid, you’re not exactly subtle. Just because you’re not saying anything specifically to people, it doesn’t mean you’re not still telling them things about you.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Rook protested lamely. “People don’t know anything about me, I made sure of that.”

Even as the words left their lips, Asaaranda knew they’d made a clear error in their judgement - Alexius knew a lot about them, and Cole knew absolutely everything about them. Varric too looked equally as unbelieving as Rook felt.

“Okay, well, I know that you’re a Vashoth Mage from Tevinter, probably a major city like Minrathous or Ventus, you never trained in a circle because you’re a runaway slave and you’ve never encountered a real lyrium-wielding Templar in your life, which is why you know nothing about the Southern Chantry or the Mage-Templar war,” Varric shot back with an unimpressed expression.

“I also know that ‘Rook’ is a nickname that a friend gave you, and that your real name is Asaaranda,” he continued, all while Rook’s mouth fell open and they gaped at him like a fish. "And last but not least, I know that you've lost people, and that you think you've failed them - that it's somehow all your fault. All of which I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t said it while I was hauling your drunken ass to bed last night."

“For everything you think you’re hiding well, there’s a whole lot more that you’re not,” he finished with a shake of his head. “So, how’d I do?” Varric’s expression was apologetic, rather than smug, which one might have expected by just the sheer amount of secrets he’d aired out into the world.

“…fuck,” Asaaranda breathed out, shuddering. “How did you…?”

“Like I said. You’re not subtle, Rook,” Varric said, flashing them a sympathetic frown. “You spend so much time trying not to tell people anything, that you end up giving a lot away on accident.”

They folded in on themselves, holding their face in-between their hands and groaning. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” Asaaranda admitted wearily. “I’m not used to having to hide things from people, much less...”

“Much less…?”

“Much less something like—” they cut themselves off in realisation. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

Varric patted them gently on the back as he nodded at them with a grimace. “Maker forbid that you ever get put into an interrogation room, Rook. You’d fold quicker than the Seeker does at Wicked Grace.”

That was a low blow. Rook winced at him, sheepishly laughing to hide the shame. “I’ve really fucked this all up, huh?”  

He didn’t make an indication that he agreed or disagreed with Rook’s statement, rather he just hummed contemplatively and said, “You know, if I had to give you any advice, it’s that you gotta give people something to work with. When you deliberately make it obvious that you don’t wanna say anything about yourself, people get curious. They start poking more holes in otherwise innocent statements, and you’re left with no control over the narrative.”

Rook hummed thoughtfully, tucking their knees under their chin to hide the inappropriately fond smile that stretched across their face unbidden. They were still contesting with the grief of having lost the Varric that they knew, but in a way, it suddenly felt like their inability to return home had given them permission to let go of it for a while.

After all, it was like nothing had really happened. What reason did they have to grieve the friend that they lost when he was right here in front of them?

“I guess you have a point,” Asaaranda replied sheepishly. “I think I’d still prefer that people call me Rook, but maybe… maybe I can figure out something to show people what they need to see.”

“That’s the spirit, Rook,” Varric chuckled. “Ponder it over breakfast, then sober up a bit before this afternoon. I tried to get you out of it, but sadly, the Ambassador and Madame de Fer wait for nobody.”

Josephine and Vivienne. Of course. Two women of the Inquisition that none would dare to cross, if they valued their reputation.

Confusion fell across their face, as Rook cocked their head and asked, “What is it exactly that I have to sober up for?”

**

Ballroom dancing lessons. That’s what Josephine and Vivienne had insisted on.

“No way,” Sabraen had protested when they realised exactly why they had been called into the war room with the infamous war table pushed up against the wall. “I’m not doing it.”

“Inquisitor, darling, I really cannot impress upon you enough the importance of maintaining a good image with the Imperial Court,” Vivienne tutted in disapproval. “Social graces are as deadly a blade as any knife. This is a weapon you cannot afford to set aside, my dear. If you do not play into the game, then you will be cast out.”

Sabraen scowled, about to unleash several unpleasant obscenities in Vivienne’s direction, when Josephine interjected, “After what you both saw at Redcliffe, we cannot afford to take chances. The most efficient way to get close enough to Empress Celene and prevent any would be assassins are these peace talks at the Winter Palace. That comes with an expectation of ballroom dances and appropriate attire.”

“Aptly put, Ambassador,” Vivienne hummed in agreement. “Which is precisely why I’ve approached my tailor to make sure you are both adequately dressed for this event.”

It was then that the man in question revealed himself, entering the double doors with a bow. He was dressed in typical Orlesian finery, including the mask with a glittering gold fake moustache that completely covered his mouth.

“Thank you, Madame de Fer,” he remarked. “It is an honour to be entrusted the task of dressing the Herald of Andraste and the Knight of the Maker. I will need to take both of your measurements, of course. It will take time to produce masks that will adequately capture the right image for the both of you, but I have brought sketches for your perusal!”

He handed them each a page, which showed detailed designs for a personalised mask for both Sabraen and Asaaranda. The Inquisitor’s design fully covered their face and neck, which was apparently “atypical” of the current style as the design notes explained, and one that was only made to cover their tattoos that branched down onto their chin and neck.

Asaaranda’s own design was equally as laughable, as the tailor had clearly taken great pains to sketch an intricate headpiece to pair with their mask, in order to cover their curvaceous horns completely. It was gaudy and ghastly, to say the least. Neither Rook nor the Herald found themselves particularly pleased.

“Mythal’enaste, no way. I am putting my foot down on this,” Sabraen declared, folding up the parchment and handing it back to the tailor.

“Inquisitor, please—” Josephine began.

“I have sacrificed plenty of myself for this Inquisition. What I cannot compromise is my being Dalish,” Sabraen insisted with an unimpressed stare in Josephine and Vivienne’s directions. “If you’re having me learn human dances, then I am not covering my vallaslin.”

“We aren’t Orlesian,” Asaaranda added, clearing their throat nervously as all the occupants of the room’s eyes fell onto them. “Why pretend to be? By my virtue of having horns, and the Inquisitor’s ears, it is plain to all what our heritage is. That is the strength of the Inquisition and its Herald, not a weakness.”

A contemplative expression fell across Vivienne’s features. She hummed gently. “I see your point, my dears, though you misunderstand the intent of our preparation. Our goal is not merely assimilation into the game, it is triumph.”

Sabraen’s expression tensed. “I will… concede then, that some of this posturing is necessary. The dancing, fine, but I would like to reconsider our options in terms of dress. No masks.”

“Very well, Inquisitor,” Josephine agreed, making notes in her ledger for later. “Your dancing instructor will be here momentarily. In the meantime, Madame de Fer and I shall discuss alternate arrangements of dress that will be pleasing to all parties.”

“Indeed, let us three go to your office then, Ambassador,” Vivienne replied. She whisked them all away with an elegant gesture, then shut the door behind her, leaving Sabraen and Asaaranda in the war room alone.

It seemed then that the both of them finally untensed. Sabraen sighed, rubbing the stress from their eyes with a low curse. “Fenedhis lasa.”

Asaaranda flashed them a sympathetic look. “Yeah. I feel you there. Are you alright?”

“Not really, no,” the Inquisitor admitted. “These past few weeks have been… grating. Having to play fancy dress with a bunch of racist shemlen really is the last thing I’ve the patience for, truthfully.”

“I do have to admit that Madame de Fer has a point. Imagine how great it’ll be for you to not only play their game, but beat them at it so badly that they remember how a Dalish Elf mage brought Orlais to its knees,” Asaaranda suggested with a sly grin.

Sabraen snorted with pained grin. “Yeah. Sure. Knowing their type, if we do too well at their own game, they’ll call another Exalted March against our people once their Divine is selected.”

Rook knew very little about Southern Chantry politics from their own time, but it had been huge news even back home about how Divine Victoria had been a friend of the Inquisitor’s as well as a mage sympathiser. She was controversial, of course, but what about the Inquisition hadn’t been already?

“Well, whoever she’ll be, I hope she’ll realise that the Chantry has bigger problems than other races existing for once,” Asaaranda shrugged.

“Indeed,” Sabraen tsked. “Creators willing, things actually change for the better once we’ve dealt with Corypheus.”

“I like to think they will,” Asaaranda admitted with a hum. “You’ve already changed a lot for the better by becoming Inquisitor, and will continue to do so for the good of us all. That’s just the kind of person you are.”

“Truly?” Sabraen asked with a shy smile. “I’m… I don’t know whether to be flattered or terrified that you think so highly of me, Rook.”

There was an edge of vulnerability in the Inquisitor’s expression that truthfully felt out of place for a such an epic hero like Sabraen Lavellan. Despite forming a friendship with them over the months since their arrival, it was hard to separate Sabraen from the image of the Inquisitor that Rook had grown up with in their own time.

Yet, looking them in the eye in that very moment, it occurred to Rook how much that image erased the person behind the acts. Sabraen, for all of their epic deeds, was just another person like them – who happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.

“I do admire you, to tell you the truth,” Rook blurted out, before they could even consider not pouring out their heart as they were prone to do. “I don’t know if you’re Maker-sent – or hell, you could’ve been sent by the likes of Mythal or something – but I know that it’s people like you that can stand up to would be Gods and impossible odds.”

Ever the pragmatist, Sabraen cleared their throat and shook their head. “I’m sure it’s only thanks to my allies who allow me to seem that way. But your word means a lot, Rook, and… I am grateful for your support through all the hardships of this Inquisition.”

“Hey, I’m happy to,” Asaaranda said, privately feeling immense gratitude to not be the only one with the weight of the world on their shoulders in a slightly sadistic way. “And, you know, if there’s anything specific bothering you, I’m here for that as well.”

“Well…” Sabraen began with a grimace. “Normally, I’d go to Solas for something like this, but he still has yet to return to Skyhold.”

Solas wasn’t back in Skyhold yet? Asaaranda blinked in confusion, processing that information as best they could whilst their hungover brain screamed at them. They hadn’t even noticed his absence, truthfully – ashamedly, given that their whole purpose was stopping the man to begin with.

Before Rook could interrogate that new tidbit of information further, the sound of hurried feet racing down the hall followed by the creak and boom of the double doors bursting open echoed throughout the war room.

“Sorry, I’m late! Had to unload the last of my supplies, and just completely lost track of time while tracking down my dancing shoes,” a familiar feminine voice called out, slightly panicked and breathless.

Oh, of course. Why wouldn’t she make a surprise appearance in the midst of their worst hangover ever? Even Varric’s wildly effective hangover wasn’t enough to quell the return of their dastardly headache and rising nausea as the redheaded dwarf made her entrance into the room.

“Scout Harding? You’re our dancing instructor?” Sabraen chortled with a much cheerier expression, having set aside their vulnerability to make way for a sudden playfulness. It seemed that Rook had lost their chance to ask more on the matter of Solas.

“Yep!” Harding responded with a sheepish grin. “Ambassador Montilyet asked if I could. Apparently her original instructor fell through, and I happened to have some free time and dance experience. I hope that’s alright.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Sabraen replied. “I’m just thankful it’s you and not some other human noble. Right, Rook?”

“…yeah,” Asaaranda coughed weakly in response, through the acrid rising bile of anxiety in their throat. “Glad you’re here, Harding.”

She gave them a soft smile in response. If Rook squinted, they could have sworn that they saw the faintest hint of a blush appearing across her cheeks, but it had to have just been from the exertion of sprinting here. “Glad to be here. So, uh, can I ask how much dance experience you both have?”

“None at all,” Sabraen snorted, shrugging their shoulders nonchalantly. “Kinda starting from the beginning, sorry.”

Harding rushed to reassure them. “It’s okay! Everyone’s gotta start somewhere. What about you, Rook?”

Asaaranda mustered up a polite smile and said truthfully, “I’ve… observed it. From time to time. Never been able to actually do the dancing myself.”

“Alright, that’s fine! We can start with the basics,” Harding decided with a sheepish grin, walking into the centre of the room. “Orlesian dancing’s actually pretty easy, the nobles tend to have a routine based on music that they all follow, compared to something like Antivan-style which can be more improvised? But anyway, we’ll start with the basic moves that appear in a few different routines.”

The basic moves were fairly simple, even if it took both Asaaranda and Sabraen quite an extensive amount of time to get a basic waltz down. After two and a half hours of some less than elegant fumbling, Harding called for a quick break for lunch, which had already been prearranged by the Ambassador and sent to the war room.

A variety of sandwiches and fruits arrived on platters aplenty, which was frankly more than enough for a small army, let alone the three of them. Nonetheless, it didn’t go unappreciated, as they were all famished just from the sheer amount that they’d already been practising for.

Some point during their lunch break, Vivienne and her tailor made yet another appearance as well, calmly requesting that they borrow the Inquisitor for some measurements, in order to adequately tailor their outfits to their exact specifications.

That left Harding and Rook alone together in the war room.

As much as it should have been agonising, or at least potentially terribly awkward, there was something nice about just sitting together in Harding’s company again. It took away the pressures to perform, and allowed them to just sink back into conversation like they once had done with her in the Lighthouse.

“So… I’m curious, how’d you learn how to ballroom dance in the middle of the Fereldan Hinterlands?” Asaaranda asked, in between bites of their sandwich. “Can’t imagine that there’s many dance instructors out there.”

Harding shook her head, blushing slightly. “No, uh… My ma always wanted a little girl to fuss over and teach various girly things to. Part of that meant that she wanted to make sure I’d ‘marry well someday’ so she hired an instructor from Orlais for my twelfth birthday. Not sure it actually helped my prospects, but I did end up liking it a lot, so ma was happy either way.”

Asaaranda gave a soft smile, as the images of young baby Lace learning how to dance came rushing forth through their mind. “Happy as long as you are, right? How’d she feel about you joining the Inquisition?”

“She was worried,” Harding chuckled sheepishly. “But proud of me at the same time. I think she always knew that I was eager to get out into the real world, do something more with my life than just settle down. The Inquisition just happened to come along at the right time.”

“The Inquisition would be lost with you, Harding,” Rook hummed, letting their genuine thoughts come tumbling out. “I’m glad you found us, even if we are worrying your poor mother. Think we’d be in a lot of trouble without such a reliable scout.”

Her rich warm laughter was like a balm on Asaaranda’s troubled soul, the very sound of her amusement ringing like bells in accompaniment of a Chantry Choir within Rook’s mind and making them flutter with pride.

Harding’s eyes crinkled with mirth as she teased, “Says you, one of the people who fell out of the sky itself. Not that I don’t appreciate the compliment, of course, especially coming from you. I think just that maybe you’re overselling my importance here.”

Rook shook their head, insistently scoffing at the dwarf’s dismissal. “Hardly. Who else would warn us about bandits and rebels when we’re out trying to fix the world? Not to mention your diverse range of skills – archery, ballroom dancing, delightful and engaging conversation whenever we meet out on the field for a new region…”

Harding’s amusement continued into slightly flustered but flattered giggles, as she replied to Rook’s words with a cock of her head and a grin, “Is it just the Inquisition that would be lost without me, or you, Rook?”

Although Rook had been the one to initiate the conversation, it occurred to them very suddenly in that moment that they were veering a bit too closely into flirtation for comfort. Asaaranda knew that the most intelligent and kinder thing for them both would’ve been to shut Harding down, and try to politely redirect things back to mindless chit-chat or small talk.

But Rook was not often one to think through mistakes before they made them, and this circumstance was no different, even after a night just before of several mistakes in a row.

“I think that both myself and the Inquisition would both indeed be very lost without you, Harding,” Asaaranda answered truthfully. “In more ways than one.”

Lace’s cheeks returned to the same rosy hue as earlier, as the tension between her and the Qunari seemed to thicken enough to drown in. Despite the way her heart raced in her chest, she quickly turned her attentions back to the task at hand, and stood up on her feet with a rough clearing of her throat. “…we should, uh… I think we should do another run of the basics. Just so we can get it clear in our heads before Halamshiral.”

Seeing the change of topic for the redirection it was, Asaaranda was content to let their playful banter end there. They stood up from the floor, bowed at Harding as they had practiced just before, and said, “Very well, my lady. Shall we dance?”

As Harding took Rook’s hand in her own, she smiled to hide her fluster. “I would be delighted.”

They had less than a month until the ball at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral. Rook was sure that the way Vivienne and Josephine had emphasised the danger of the Orlesian Game was no mere exaggeration. They were used to dealing with the likes of wolves and gods, but this would be more like entering a nest full of vipers preening and prancing like peacocks.

Varric’s advice from earlier in the morning kept ringing in their ear, as Rook stepped in time with Lace, and twirled her around the room. “You have to give them something to work with.” It was an echo of advice that Solas himself had given to Asaaranda months ago, before Redcliffe and before Haven had fallen to Corypheus. “You will want to give them something, for your own sake, lest they find something else on their own.”

Asaaranda had ignored Solas for the most part back then, out of sheer pride and stubbornness. No matter how helpful the advice was, they had still thought that telling the Inquisition anything about themselves was far too big of a risk to take.

Yet Varric revealing just how much they’d let slip unintentionally was the wake up call they needed. It was the final realisation that they couldn’t keep playing their game like that. The Inquisition was full of people with many more years of experience and understanding of secrets than they possessed.

They had to take control of their own narrative, before someone who was less understanding than Varric took it for them. Especially now that they had no easy exit back to their own time, they had to contend with the reality that this was their new life.

It was settled then. Rook had to get their image under control. It didn’t necessarily have to be a new image, or at least not one made of lies. It just had to be close enough to reality for it to be believable.

One way or another, they still had their chance to stop the Dread Wolf.

Chapter Text

Solas returned to Skyhold the very next morning, after having been gone for just short of three weeks. Sabraen had been the first to meet with him, finding him just inside of the gates after the guards informed them of his return.

Rook had been in their room at the time, a mere wall away from their conversation. Truthfully, it hadn’t even been their intention to eavesdrop. They’d been dismantling what remained of their old bed to make way for the new one that they’d requisitioned instead. It had previously been just a bedroll and a couple of crates laid on their sides, when they thought that this space would just be a temporary one to leave behind once Rook returned to their own time.

Now that they’d more or less accepted this would be their home and their old life was lost to them, Asaaranda had to carve a proper place for themselves, like they had done in the Lighthouse.

Overhearing Solas’ return was truly just a coincidence. Yet it was absolutely a welcome one.

“Aneth ara, hahren,” the Inquisitor greeted, so gently that Rook might not have heard it if not for the fact that they were practically outside their bedroom door. In kind, Solas returned their greeting with a polite yet mournful, “Aneth ara, da’len.”

“How are you, Solas?” Sabraen asked, their signature caring frown audible even through stone walls. Solas’ own voice was laden with grief and undeniable regret as he replied, “It hurts. It always does, but I will survive.”

Asaaranda froze at the sound of his tone, unwittingly holding their breath as if to make sure each laboured intake of air did not cover up the rare display of vulnerability from the Dread Wolf. They’d only ever heard him sound so sincerely pained like that once before.

When he’d killed Varric at the ritual site in Arlathan. Bastard.

“Thank you for coming back,” Sabraen said, in spite of Rook’s renewed fury at their mutual companion. “I was worried about you.”

“You were a true friend. You did everything you could to help,” Solas told them in lieu of an acknowledgement of their concern. “I could hardly abandon you now.”

“Where were you, exactly?” Sabraen asked, continuing their concerned interrogation.

“I found a quiet spot and went to sleep. I visited the place in the Fade where my friend used to be,” he replied, once again omitting any semblance of actual detail. It was impossible to miss once one realised just how often he sidestepped questions like that.

He could have been anywhere in Thedas, done anything. Rook couldn’t be sure he hadn’t tracked down an Eluvian and returned to the Lighthouse or gone somewhere equally concerning.

Corypheus all but guaranteed that Solas would not tear down the Veil yet, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t preparing for it. His vague explanation of details all but confirmed that that was the case. It was infuriating, but there was little they could do about it except silently scream into their hands.

“Forgive me if this is an insensitive question… but do you know what happens when a spirit dies?” Sabraen asked hesitantly.

“It isn’t the same for mortals. The energy of spirits returns to the Fade. If the idea giving the spirit form is strong, or if the memory has shaped other spirits, it may someday rise again,” Solas informed them grimly.

That was a scary thought. If Asaaranda ever had the need to kill Solas, he could just come back again? Though, they supposed that Solas wasn’t truly a spirit, and hadn’t been for centuries. He’d had a flesh and blood body for so long, he couldn’t be called a spirit, surely.  Nonetheless, the very image sent shivers down Rook’s spine.

“You’re saying your friend might come back?” Sabraen wondered, interjecting into Rook’s intrusive thoughts like a knife through butter.

“No, not really. A spirit’s natural state is peaceful semi-existence. It is rare to be able to reflect reality. Something similar may reform one day, but it might have a different personality. It would likely not remember me,” Solas rebutted, still grim and dreary. “It would not be the friend I knew.”

“Are you certain?” Sabraen probed once again. “It’s just… I don’t wish to doubt your expertise, but how can you know that for sure? Maybe there’s some hope for them.”

A bitter chuckle fell from Solas’ lips. “In all my time journeying throughout the Fade, I have never seen such a phenomena occur. It speaks greatly to your optimism that you thought to ask, da’len, but it would be unkind to us both to encourage such a belief.”

“The Fade has shown you a great many things that have helped us,” Sabraen sighed, conceding with great reluctance. “Ir abelas. I’ve never doubted your judgement or knowledge before. I just… you needn’t mourn alone, hahren.”

“It has been a long time since I could trust someone,” he admitted. “I’ll work on it. Thank you, da’len.”

For a moment, Asaaranda just paused and sat to process the conversation that they’d overheard. Seeing a vulnerable side of Solas wasn’t new, nor did it necessarily make them more sympathetic towards him. Sabraen’s growing bond with Solas wasn’t new to them either, as the Inquisitor of their time had admitted that they still saw him as their very dear friend, even after they’d lost their arm to him.

But the thing that had caught their attention was new, at least to Rook. He had explained his knowledge of how a spirit’s passing was different to that of mortals by simply saying he had never seen one return through all his time ‘journeying in the Fade.’

That was how Solas had been getting away with all his bullshit throughout the entirety of the Inquisition… A fancily worded version of ‘the Fade told me.’ Rook had been panicking for no reason. They’d been worried sick since Varric told them what they’d let slip, running around with frantic desperation to try and form an identity based on complicated half-truths and lies of omission.

Meanwhile, Solas had just been riding by on the Fade being his answer for everything he shouldn’t feasibly have known. Asaaranda gave a hysterical and wildly inappropriate chuckle into their hands. “Oh… this changes everything.”

They knew exactly how they were going to act from now on, exactly what image they could give up to the Inquisition’s many spies and curious onlooker’s eyes. Any questions, any confusion around their knowledge or actions… All of it, Rook was going to say exactly what Solas did.

Sure, it might lead to a touch more scrutiny and suspicion from the Inquisition, but that should get them question Solas a bit more as well. He had to have his limits, and it wouldn’t be too long before he buckled under the pressure, potentially scrambling his resources and delaying his plans.

It could very well fuck his plans over completely. Asaaranda beamed. This was going to be delicious.

**

Back when they still thought there might be a way to return home, Asaaranda had entertained the possibility that they could return through an Eluvian and find their way back to the Lighthouse from there.

Now that they knew they were stuck here, getting to the Lighthouse became more about seizing the stronghold from Solas than it was about getting home. That meant gaining access to the Crossroads and from there the Vi’Revas.

With time and a bit of help, Rook was certain they could fix the Eluvian for themselves. Yet if the task proved too arduous, there was a chance that they could simply wait and seek out Morrigan in Orlais. Asaaranda knew that Sabraen and Morrigan met during the Winter Palace Ball, became acquainted shortly after, and that the famed Witch of the Wilds would go onto become a magical advisor for the Inquisition.

The Eluvians had been her area of expertise, after all they had been what allowed Morrigan to visit Rook in the Crossroads to reveal herself a vessel of Mythal’s memories. It would be adhering to the events of the past to allow Morrigan to be the one to assist the Inquisition with the Eluvians.

That came with risk, of course, of allowing the Inquisition to make the same mistakes it had done so previously. It also meant involving more people that Rook could not be sure that they could entirely trust to conceal their true identity.

It was in their best interest to continue to pursue fixing the Eluvian on their own. They had already risked too much by involving Alexius and Cole. Revealing their identity proper could only come once they had evidence of Solas’ duplicity.  

That would come once they had the Lighthouse.

Although they didn’t have the Veil Jumpers, they had a wealth of knowledge available to them. Asaaranda was no dreamer, they could not walk the Fade as Solas did, even if they wanted to. But they had access to an utter wealth of books, one of the most prolific library collections in Southern Thedas, and Cole – who had shown himself to be willing to read on Rook’s behalf.

Rook was sure that they’d be able to find some form of information here. Yet, as they looked across the shelves, they were utterly overwhelmed. Identifying what they needed was impossible on their own, especially since most of the books didn’t have pictures on the cover.

They could have just flipped through the contents of each book until they found a picture of an Eluvian, but that would take unreasonably long. They just had to suck it up and ask for help.

“Helisma, apologies for the interruption, but do you know of any books about the ancient elves in the Skyhold collection?” Asaaranda asked hesitantly. They hadn’t encountered many Tranquil before, but like many mages, the Rite had always unnerved them.

Mage slaves were often threatened with tranquillity as a punishment in the Imperium, since the Magisterium had free reign to decide what constituted an abuse of magic. Sometimes an ‘abuse of magic’ was merely the act of being a mage who stood against their master.

“I apologise, Ser Rook,” Helisma replied in monotone as was the nature of the tranquil. “My area of expertise is in creature research. I believe Master Pavus is the one who currently manages the catalogue. Any questions should be directed towards him.”

Asaaranda hummed in acknowledgement, bowing their head at her somewhat fastidiously, as if they thought any other action might cause offense. “Right, thank you, Helisma.”

The Tranquil woman turned her attention back to the table in front of her, leaving Rook to their own devices once more. That didn’t help them at all. Dorian had left for Redcliffe just a few hours ago, for a personal meeting or some other such vague happening, and was therefore unreachable.

Just as Rook thought they might have to despair, a gentle but startling voice interjected, “If you would like, I may be able to assist.”

“Grand Enchanter,” Rook greeted with a nod, smiling tightly at the elven mage as she approached to hide their surprise. “I would appreciate it, if it’s not an inconvenience for you. Truthfully, I’m not entirely sure where to start.”

Fiona hummed contemplatively, “If it’s ancient elves you’re interested in, there is at least one title I can think of. ‘Dalish Myth and Collected Truths Against by Sister Petrine?’”

Asaaranda shook their head dismissively. “Uh, maybe? I’m thinking more about Arlathan, their artefacts and such, rather than their gods.”

“Very well,” Fiona conceded. “’The Exalted Marches: Examination of Chantry Warfare’ might be a good starting point, if we can find it.”

“I find it somewhat hard to believe a book named ‘Examination of Chantry Warfare’ has information on Arlathan,” Asaaranda admitted with a grimace.

“Despite the name, it covers quite a surprising amount of Arlathan’s history in the second chapter,” Fiona reassured, as she searched the shelves for the book in question. “One of my projects as an apprentice before I became a Warden was on this text.”

That was a surprise to Rook. “Wait, you were a Grey Warden?”

Fiona smiled tightly at them and nodded. “I was. Though the circumstances around my history with the order are unusual, to say the least. Long ago, I was stripped of what made me a Warden. Any attempt to reinitiate me resulted in failure. Thus, I was sent back to the Circle of Magi.”

Asaaranda suddenly felt like all of the breath had left their lungs all at once. “You… you’ve been cured of the taint? How?”

“I wish I knew,” Fiona replied apologetically. “Sadly, some things remain lost to us.”

Rook shook their head, as they blinked at her in awe. “Maker’s ass, I mean… does Weisshaupt know about this? Have they tried to replicate anything that happened leading up to your cure?”

If they or anyone else had known about Fiona, she could have helped to save so many lives. Unbidden images of Ashur, Tarquin, Neve – those who had suffered the attacks of Ghilan’nain’s Blighted Dragon – came rushing to the forefront of Rook’s mind.

One person in the entirety of Thedas had been blighted and cured. The fact that hadn’t become a bigger deal in Rook’s time was a mystery to them.

Fiona shrugged, once again giving Rook an apologetic look. “I will not presume to know the current understanding of the Grey Wardens, but I was removed not long after I was cured, and that was about thirty years ago. Wardens rarely live much longer than that.”

Making it more than just possible that all who knew that Fiona had been cured were dead and gone, apart from the mage herself. If they had deemed her a mere oddity rather an opportunity, it made sense why the Wardens of Rook’s own time had never mentioned it.

Still… it seemed such a waste. The Fifth Blight alone had seen many lives lost, and that was just in Ferelden. The Sixth and Seventh spanned much of the northern nations of Thedas. If somebody, anybody had tried to interrogate Fiona further about the happenings around her cure, they could have saved so many lives.

Rook couldn’t let such an opportunity slip away once again, knowing what was at risk.

“In any case, uh, if you’d be willing, I’d love to discuss this as a possibility with you later, Fiona,” Asaaranda proposed with a sheepish smile. “Once I’ve sorted out my elven artefact inquiries and such, obviously.”

There was a visible hesitance to the Grand Enchanter, but after a moment, she came to a decision. “I would be willing, Rook,” she agreed in the end. “I cannot guarantee results, but I owe the Inquisition much. If I can begin to repay that debt in this endeavour, then I will do so.”

It wouldn’t be the Inquisition that Fiona paid back exactly, but that hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. Rook and the Inquisition’s goals were aligned in the end anyway, even if the Inquisition didn’t know exactly how yet.

** 

Rook’s collection of texts from Fiona would have to wait until they returned from Crestwood. Hawke and their contact from the Wardens had promised to meet the Inquisition out there to discuss the matter of the wardens’ disappearance and Corypheus.

The Inquisitor insisted on bringing them along with Varric, Bull, and Solas. Since Cole was staying behind, Rook asked that he read through the books for them and tell them anything about the Eluvians that he found once they returned.

Like many other parts of Ferelden, Crestwood was rainy and rife with rifts. The absolutely massive one in the centre of the lake was alarming, of course, but Rook was fairly certain that the Inquisitor would be able to take care of it the same as any others.

Frankly, the main concern was the Grey Wardens. With all of the Orlesian Wardens under Corypheus’ control, it left the entire south vulnerable to future Blights. They had to ensure that it all went as it did last time – that the Inquisitor stopped Clarel and the Venatori from summoning a demon army, and freed any remaining Wardens from Corypheus’ influence.

That meant tracking down Hawke and their Warden contact. They’d sent word ahead to say that they’d both meet the Inquisition in a cave in the hills and that they’d discuss their next moves there. It wasn’t particularly helpful as a descriptor, given the fact there were at least half a dozen different caves in the hills.

“You’d have thought that Hawke would be a bit more specific than ‘cave in Crestwood’ for directions, hey, Varric?” The Iron Bull grumbled as the group made their way out and back into the rain again.

“It’s just how they roll, Tiny,” Varric reassured. “Besides, we’re getting a look at all the shit that’s wrong around here, right Elfroot?”

“Indeed. We’re just being extra productive,” Sabraen replied. “And we’re getting fresh air out of it.”

“You and I must have very definitions of ‘fresh air,’ Sabraen,” Rook murmured, as they brushed their rain-soaked fringe out of their eyes. “This whole place smells like corpses and despair.”

“We’ll get out of the rain soon, I promise,” the Inquisitor reassured with a playful roll of their eyes. “I’m pretty sure Hawke’s over this next hill.”

Just as the words left Sabraen’s lips, they all noticed the grotesque crystalline growth that had surged up from the hillside. As tall as two people, the familiar sight of red lyrium pulsating its angry red seemed to strip all playful banter from the group.

To see it above ground like this could only mean one thing. Red Templars.

“Shit…” Varric muttered. “More of this shit above ground can’t be good.”

“Come on,” Sabraen grimaced. “Even if Hawke’s not here, we should check the area out.”

The Inquisitor and their companions hurried up the hill, even through the torrential downpour that had left the ground unsteady and slippery. As they reached the apex, passing more and more growths of red lyrium, a camp and patrolling armed men came into view.

Yet, it was clear, that they were no ordinary men. Their bodies seemed to glow through the darkness, their eyes a ferocious crimson that pierced through the rain, and bodies riddled with the crystals like Rook and Sabraen had previously seen in the future at Redcliffe.

These Templars were even more corrupted than the invaders that had attacked Haven. It really was true that Corypheus was giving them over to Red Lyrium, then.

Just as they’d taken in the horrors of them in, the Templars suddenly noticed the arrival of the Inquisition and roared in alarm. “It’s the Inquisition! Kill the bastards, now!”

Up in arms, almost a dozen Red Templars raced towards them all. The mages tried take up the rear to deal with any archers, while Varric and The Iron Bull took care of any approaching warriors and melee fighters.

Despite being outnumbered by two to one and the less than ideal weather conditions, they were clearing through their approaching enemies with ease. One warrior fell after another, leaving just a couple of archers up on the very peak of the hill.

Asaaranda began to rush towards them to get a better reach from their staff when suddenly they were thrown out of their rhythm. With a crack that echoed across the valley, Asaaranda fell backwards onto the ground as a Red Templar rogue descended upon them with blade in hand. “Rook!” Sabraen called in horror.

Swinging wildly, the horror raised his arm upwards and began to swipe at Rook, aiming to stab through the centre of their chest. The blade itself screamed a corrupted version of the Titan’s song, made from blighted lyrium. Despite the panic rushing through them, it briefly occurred to Asaaranda that this rogue wasn’t just holding the blade in his hand – it was an extension of his hand itself.

His fingers had fused into the lyrium, consuming him until he was nothing but a weapon. Even as he positioned his legs either side of Rook’s to keep them pinned to the ground, there was nothing human left about him. He was closer to beast than person.

It was that realisation that gave Rook their opening to escape. They grasped the attacking blade by the wrist in their hand and twisted harshly until it snapped clean off. From there, they drove the point of the lyrium into the rogue templar’s neck.

The templar howled like a wounded beast, only shrieking more once Rook sent a wave of freezing cold ice magic through the lyrium point. It froze the templar into one solid mass, allowing Asaaranda to shove him off and rush backwards out of the fray.

Their head pounded with the adrenaline of avoiding an attack so narrowly, as well as from the pain of hitting their head on the ground. Everything seemed to spin, preventing them from being able to aim for any target.

Luckily, having four other competent fighters around them had meant the other attacking Templars were swiftly taken care of. The camp had been cleared out, leaving behind just the red lyrium growths and their supplies.

With no more immediate threats around them, Asaaranda finally registered what had actually happened to them when the rogue attacked. In the struggle, their right horn had snapped in half.

“Fasta vass, I can’t believe I didn’t see that asshole coming,” Rook winced, as they reached up to touch the broken keratin and skin. Fortunately, it hadn’t broken far enough down to cause any bleeding, but their head was throbbing from the impact nonetheless.

“You alright, Rook?” Varric asked, a wobble of worry entering his tone. “Do you need any help?”

“Ugh…” they replied with a groan. “I… no. No, I should be fine. Hit my head on the ground, but I’ll be okay if I can rest a bit after we see Hawke.”

“If you have hit your head, you might have a concussion,” Solas added with a frown. “It may be wiser for you to return to camp.”

“I’m not concussed,” Asaaranda insisted with a low hiss. “Just annoyed about my horn. It’s gonna take forever to grow back.”

The Iron Bull picked up the remnants of their horn and gave a contemplative hum. “Well, the break didn’t seem to get into the blood vessels. I reckon we can graft this back on with no problem.”

“You sure we shouldn’t just head back to camp and take care of it now?” Varric wondered with unwavering concern.

“Can we just hurry up and find Hawke? Once we’ve found them and their Warden friend, we can make camp, and then you can all fuss over me,” Asaaranda huffed stubbornly. As much as they appreciated the concern, they didn’t need to be babied for a broken horn.

“Alright, alright,” Sabraen conceded. “But if you start feeling off, you and Solas are going to head back to camp together.”

Asaaranda grumbled slightly, but kept their mouth shut to avoid any inciting further argument. The group continued downhill again, after determining that Hawke had not in-fact hidden themselves in a cave behind a Red Templar camp, and continued down the road to the next cave marked on the map.

Lo and behold, the very last one that they checked was where Pandora Hawke was waiting for them. The Champion of Kirkwall had donned her iconic armour, and was trying to appear casual while standing around at the mouth of the cave.

“There you are. I was starting to wonder if maybe I’d gotten the wrong address,” Hawke quipped with a shrug of their shoulders and their typical witty smile. “Everything alright?”

“Well, we’re one horn shorter than before, but mostly unscathed,” Varric replied with a comfortable ease about him. “Did you get here okay yourself? No issues?”

“I’m fine, Varric,” Hawke reassured with a chuckle. “Nothing came up that I couldn’t handle. Now, come on. He should be waiting inside for us.”

The group entered the torchlit cave behind Hawke, who took the lead inside, hobbling in with their staff for support. Eventually, when the group reached the back of the cave, they approached a boarded up space with a wooden door and symbol painted onto the slats.

Asaaranda’s breath hitched as memories washed over them of where exactly they had seen that banner. A skull with a black background and eye sockets covered by a thick strip of red like a mimicry of a blindfold – that symbol had been in slavers markets all around Tevinter.

It belonged to The Blind Men, a group of Smugglers whose primary dealings were selling people into slavery in Tevinter, including non-citizens. They were notorious for having particularly rough treatment of those they took, to the point that they’d even briefly been investigated by the Magisterium before they were paid off. Asaaranda wouldn’t have been surprised if the bastards were now working with Corypheus.

Normally, they would have just clamped down and buried that tidbit of information to note for later, out of a desperate attempt to hide anything about themselves from the Inquisition. As things now stood for them, they had to change their approach to take control over their own image.

“Someone please tell me that the Warden we’re meeting isn’t working with the Blind Men,” Asaaranda hissed dangerously.

Sabraen looked back at them with concern. “Who are the Blind Men?”

“They’re slavers,” Rook explained with a glower aimed at the sign’s direction. “They take free people from wherever they can and sell them off to the highest bidder in places like Nessus. If our Warden contact’s coming from them, you can forget it.”

The Iron Bull shook his head. “I doubt it. There’s bloodstains everywhere. Not the kind of blood you’d get from just roughing people up either. If there were slavers here, they’re probably dead now.”

“I’ve known him a long time. He’s not the type for engaging in smuggling people or working with slavers,” Hawke promised. “That being said, if I’ve made a grave misjudgement in friends again, I’m sure we can take care of it now.”

Varric gave a sigh in response to Hawke’s quip that was some mixture of fond exasperation and genuine lack of amusement, prompting Sabraen to finally interrupt the exchange and push open the door.

Lo and behold, there were no signs of any captured free-people, nor smugglers skulking around the cave. In fact, the cave was so empty that it was almost eerie. Save for one person. A man dressed in the undeniably iconic armour of the Wardens with a wide handlebar moustache and short dark brown hair.

“Warden Stroud,” Pandora Hawke called. “I’ve got Inquisitor Lavellan and Rook here to speak with you regarding Corypheus.”

Chapter Text

The information that Stroud had given about the disappearance of the Grey Wardens was what the Inquisition needed to proceed. There was a ritual happening soon in the Western Approach, and they would all meet Stroud there in about a week’s time.

In the interim, Rook and everyone else would take care of business in Crestwood. Rifts wouldn’t close themselves, after all. Despite that, the journey to Crestwood had proved somewhat arduous, and so Sabraen decided the time had come to make camp.

Hawke had elected to join them, rather than go ahead to the Approach unaccompanied. Thus, the conversations that followed by the campfire involved the decompression from all of the reveals that Stroud had kept hidden from Hawke.

“So… every Warden in Orlais is hearing the Calling, making them think their time on earth is up,” Hawke stated with a mournful scowl. “I can’t believe Stroud didn’t tell me that.”

“Not unlike how Archdemons command Darkspawn, I suppose,” Asaaranda added with a frown. “Still. I can’t help but wonder if Corypheus’ influence extends beyond Orlais. Has the Inquisition reached out to any of the Wardens in Weisshaupt or Amaranthine?”

Sabraen nodded. “Leliana tried, apparently, but both groups didn’t get back to her.”

“Are we not concerned about that at all?” Rook pressed. “All Wardens in Thedas are suddenly unreachable in the middle of a Darkspawn magister’s attempted coup of the entire South?”

“Except for Blackwall,” Sabraen reminded.

“Well, yeah, but he’s not—” Asaaranda cut themselves off, thinking better of revealing such a secret. Thom Rainier’s past was not theirs to tell, and neither would it be fair or appropriate to speak of it as though they’d learnt it from the Fade. “He’s not a whole group. He’s just one guy. Amaranthine and Weisshaupt are entire strongholds of Wardens.”

“The Wardens have always been kinda secretive and cagey at the best of times, Rook,” Varric added with a shrug. “It makes sense they’re getting even more unreachable with Corypheus around.”

Despite the fact that Rook knew this had all worked out for the Inquisition before, they couldn’t help but feel like the others were dismissing this with far too much ease considering they all didn’t know that this would work out.

“What about the Hero of Ferelden?” Asaaranda pressed once again. “And wasn’t King Alistair a Warden himself? We could try talking to them.”

“You want to try and find the Hero of Ferelden?” Hawke questioned with a cock of their brow. “No offense, Rook, but you’d have better luck finding a sovereign in a cave full of darkspawn. Suledin Surana’s an elusive woman, or so I hear.”

That was an altogether too revealing slip of the tongue on Pandora Hawke’s end, Asaaranda realised suddenly. It was the kind of innocent comment that they would make, and not realise the implications of. ‘Or so I hear?’ When exactly had Hawke gone looking for Suledin Surana? And for what reason?

Before they had time to interrogate that thought further, Rook’s eyes fell on the suddenly interested Dread Wolf. Apparently, the name ‘Suledin’ had caught Solas’ attention. Where he’d previously been just a silent observer of the conversation, he now made himself an active participant. “’Suledin?’ The Grey Wardens allow elves into their ranks?”

“Qunari and dwarves too, I imagine. They don’t care about titles or blood, just stopping the Blight,” Varric replied with shrug.

“A pity they do it so badly then,” Solas remarked flippantly, the casual scorn just oozing from his tone. As if he hadn’t been the reason that the Grey Wardens’ existence was necessary in the first place.

Asaaranda gritted their teeth tightly, cursing him in their head. That smug son of a bitch. Just when it looked like Varric might try to redirect the conversation, Rook couldn’t stop themselves from interjecting. “Huh. And what exactly have you done to fight against the Blight, Solas?”

He seemed surprised by their sudden interjection, and even more so by their unapologetic animosity directed towards him.

“Give them some credit, it's not like you can study the Blight safely,” Varric interrupted, sensing that this was the sort of conversation that would become ugly very quickly. “I may not like everything they've done, but without the Wardens, we'd all be blighted by now.”

“They've bought us some time, I will grant them that,” Solas conceded.

Asaaranda rolled their eyes so hard that it made them dizzy. Of course he’d say that. The damned bastard. Feeling residual frustration threatening to overtake them, Rook decided that they needed to excuse themselves before they said anything particularly unwise.

Unfortunately for them, their own body seemed to have other plans, as they stumbled like a newborn halla as they tried to get up to their feet.

The Iron Bull steadied them with a hand on their back. “Easy there, Rook, you don’t look so good.”

Sabraen frowned, nodding in agreement. “Yeah… Solas, think you could take a look and check that they’re not concussed?”

Apparently pleased that the topic had moved away from the Grey Wardens, Solas nodded. “Very well. I’ll admit, I have been concerned you may have hit your head a bit hard back there, Rook.”

Asaaranda groaned. “I am fine. I just need to get to bed.”

“You won’t be fine if we wake up tomorrow morning to find you’ve died from a bleed in your brain. Just let him take a look,” Bull insisted.

Seeing that they had all but lost the battle, Asaaranda sighed and sat down next to Solas in defeat. “Alright.”

The elf placed his hands either side of Asaaranda’s temple, just below the base of their horns. After a moment between breaths, Solas’ magic washed over them, making them flinch slightly. It wasn’t that his spell was painful, at least not deliberately so, just that having to sit still and trust that their secretly sworn enemy’s magic wouldn’t harm them wasn’t exactly the most comfortable experience to have.

They were tense, no matter how much they tried to hide it. It didn’t escape Solas’ notice, much less Varric’s or The Iron Bull’s. None of them broke the silence that had settled around them all, no matter how uncomfortable it was.

There were quite possibly hundreds of thousands of things that Asaaranda Mercar wished that they could say to him in that moment. After they learnt of Varric's death, they had imagined the many thousands of ways they would confront the Dread Wolf.

Alas all of them evaded Rook now, for as much as they would have liked to have sunk a blade into his chest, and bellow in revenge - they had no doubt that Solas would very well kill them now for the attempt. Nonetheless, sitting by his side in silence was an agony. Every moment that Rook allowed him to keep up the pretence of caring for them, was another moment that they wished they could end it all here.

He didn't care. He couldn't possibly. The only reason that he stayed with the Inquisition was for his own Damned Pride. The Breach had been his fault. Corypheus had been his fault.

Everything Rook had lost had been his fault.

“Have you a history of head trauma, Rook?” Solas asked, with an unusually soft quality to his tone.

“You’re asking how often I’ve hit my head?” Asaaranda asked, a hint of venom lacing their confusion. “All the time. I’m a Qunari in the South. They don’t make doorframes tall enough down here.”

Gentle yet strained laughter slipped past Solas’ lips in response. “A glib enough response. Yet I can see you’ve undoubtedly faced some significant injuries in the past year or so.”

They’d hit their head at the ritual site in Arlathan. That was probably what he was referring to. Was there a way for Solas to have noticed the residual Blood Magic left by the future version of himself, Rook wondered. They hoped not, they weren’t sure their excuses for having his blood magic in their head would be convincing enough for him to let it slide.  

“I guess so,” Asaaranda replied tersely. “Hit my head pretty bad after a job went wrong almost a year ago.”

Solas frowned in concern. “Hmm. I’m concerned that this fall may have refractured it.”

“From what I saw, the horn absorbed a good chunk of the impact,” The Iron Bull suggested with a shrug. “Head injuries can take a long time to heal, might still just be healing.”

This answer didn’t seem to sit well with Solas, who tsked quietly under his breath in displeasure. “Even so. It should be an easy enough task to heal it.”

As his fingertips seemed to crackle with energy from the Fade, Asaaranda’s hackles were raised and they tensed like they were under attack. They flinched backwards from him wildly like a startled animal.

“No. No fucking way,” Rook hissed in protest. “I was fine with you checking that I’m not concussed, but I don’t want your magic messing around with my head, Solas.”

“Rook—” Solas began to protest, before he locked eyes with Rook’s own and then paused as if to think better of snapping at them. An odd expression passed over his features, and he allowed his hands to drop by his sides limply.

Taking advantage of the opening, Asaaranda sprang to their feet, much steadier this time, and half-heartedly bid the group goodnight before retreating back to their tent.

That could not have gone worse, Rook groaned silently into their hands. They’d hoped that joining the Inquisitor and company in Crestwood would allow them to offer some insight into the situation from the future, but instead all they’d really done was fumble like an idiot and break their horn off.

It wasn’t exactly like Stroud or Hawke had really offered them the right segue to do so with. ‘Corypheus makes all Wardens in Orlais hear the Calling, and makes them think their lives are at an end? Oh, what a coincidence, two Elven Gods did the same thing about a decade into the future! How do I know this? Well, funny story actually…’ they thought bitterly.

Pulling off the wise yet humble sage really wasn’t Rook’s forte.

All the many thoughts they had swirled in Asaaranda’s mind as they scurried into their bedroll and soon found themselves taken into the blissful arms of slumber. Normally, Rook had a very poor grasp on their dreams at the best of times, even for a mage.

Yet that night, something was different.

Everything felt clearer, like they had scarcely even fallen asleep at all. Instead, Rook found themselves wandering an expanse made of an endless stream of colours. As they walked it, mindlessly before they came into any semblance of awareness, Rook suddenly found themselves at the edge of a cliff.

Asaaranda’s heart leapt up into their chest. This was the Fade. Momentary fear stabbed into their chest. Had they been drawn back into the Prison? Had all of the past few months been an elaborate ruse of psychosis, meant to throw them back into the pits of despair?

They could have spiralled wildly out of control, if not for the sudden appearance of a familiar lithe and bald elven figure overlooking the horizon. If he was there, it couldn’t be the Prison. He wouldn’t return there unless it was to fix some major fuck-up he’d made while trapping them inside.

As Rook’s feet took them forward, almost entirely against their own will, Solas looked over his shoulder in surprise and then turned on his heel towards them.

“Rook. My apologies,” Solas greeted with a bow of his head. “I had been lingering on the conversations we had before I slept. Seems I drew you here by accident.”

They blinked at him dumbly, trying to discern exactly what this form of Solas was before opening their big mouth and blabbing like they would typically do. “…and where is here, exactly?”

“I’m not sure. Somewhere in the Fade, I’d imagine,” he suggested with a sly shrug. “Do your dreams normally look like this, Rook?”

Without the others of the Inquisition around to perform for, Asaaranda found them falling back into their old habits of how they spoke to Solas in their own time. “I couldn’t say, really,” Rook replied with their own somewhat sarcastic shrug. “I don’t typically remember my dreams when I wake up. Y’know, like normal people.”

Solas gave a dry chuckle in response. “Fair enough, I suppose. We can’t all be so lucky as to freely walk the Fade in our dreams.”

Asaaranda snorted quietly. “Right.”

An uneasy silence settled between the two of them, just long enough for it to get awkward, before Solas finally spoke again. “The Blind Men. The smugglers who deal in trading freemen to slavers. I take it you’ve some degree of familiarity with them?”

That had not been what Rook had expected him to say. Asaaranda cocked their head at him curiously and nodded with slight suspicion. “You could say that. They’re a bunch of assholes, in case you were wondering.”

“Aptly put,” Solas chuckled warmly. “I don’t imagine those who make their living in the enslavement other people to be anything less.”

That unfamiliar gentleness and warmth returned to Solas’ expression, with an edge of hesitance. “Pardon me if this is an insensitive question, Rook, but am I correct in assuming that your history with them goes beyond mere second-hand experience?”

Well, it shouldn’t have surprised Asaaranda that he’d pieced together that much about them. Especially not since they had played that hand so openly when going to meet with Stroud and Hawke. Nonetheless, it was a little disquieting to see just how right Varric was about their life being an almost open book.

“Is there a point to you asking me this, Solas?” Asaaranda asked, instead of answering his inquiry.

He nodded, resolutely. “I had hoped to better understand your history, in fact. You don’t speak much of yourself.”

“I talk about myself as much as you do,” Asaaranda noted with an arched eyebrow. “And since you seem to have come to a conclusion about my past experiences, you can surely understand how those experiences might lead one to be somewhat reserved?”

Solas nodded his head in concession. “Indeed. Though, I would hardly say you are a particularly reserved person, Rook. You were quite outspoken about your concerns over the disappearance of the Grey Wardens.”

Asaaranda hummed lightly. “As we all should be. They’re all that stands between Thedas and total annihilation. Allowing them to fall into Corypheus’ hands would prove to be the end of us all.”

An inappropriate snort most unbecoming of the Dread Wolf echoed throughout the realm of dreams in response to Rook’s declaration. “Forgive me. I hadn’t expected your support for the order to be quite so impassioned,” Solas clarified with a thinly veiled sneer.

Ah. So this was the crux of the issue. He hadn’t expected Rook to call him out for criticising the Grey Wardens, when he himself had no leg to stand on. However, he’d gotten one thing wrong.

“It’s not the order I support. It’s the people,” Asaaranda corrected. “I won’t pretend like I don’t think the Wardens have their problems. But as long as they make sure the world isn’t swallowed in Blight, I really don’t care.”

The First Warden came to mind. He’d been a complete and utter ass, but had otherwise come around when Rook had appealed to him. When the chips were down, he was prepared to lay down his life to end the Blight. Ghilan’nain had intervened before he could finalise Razikale’s end, sure, but he’d kept fighting to survive. Even through his utterly blighted state, it was his information that had allowed Rook and Davrin to deal with Isseya. He had made a difference.

He wasn’t a perfect hero, but that didn’t matter. People didn’t need to be morally perfect to do the right thing.

“I see. Perhaps a more pragmatic take than I had originally thought. Ultimately a dangerous one, however,” Solas assessed scornfully. “The Blight is corrupting force that cannot be used in a safe capacity, those who think otherwise are mad. That includes the Wardens.”

Asaaranda hummed disdainfully. “So, I suppose the people of Thedas should all live and die with the consequences of its creation, then? Should the next two Blights be allowed to run rampant because we don’t like the ethics of the only order that keeps us alive?”  

That had put Solas in his place. Temporarily cowed by their response, he seemed to be at a loss for what to say. After a moment, he cleared his throat and declared, “What, in your opinion then, becomes of the Wardens once the Archdemons are all defeated?”

“I couldn’t presume to know the answer to that,” Rook shot back. “For if I did, we would be having a very different conversation. I might agree with you that the Wardens should seek out different strategies to saving the world. Until you can offer a better insight into the actual happenings of the Blight, the strategy of ‘kill them until they’re dead,’ is all we have.”  

It was as close to an actual reprimand of Solas’ role in creating the Blight as Rook could offer without completely revealing their hand. As far as Rook knew, not a single person in Thedas besides Solas and themselves knew of the consequences of the final Archdemons’ deaths.

If the Archdemons fell, so would the Veil in its entirety, which would mean the actual sum of the Blight would be released unto the world.

For Solas to be so high and mighty about the Wardens’ efforts being in vain, when he was the one who was responsible for their necessity, simply did not sit well with Rook. Naturally, they took some pleasure in seeing him squirm under the scrutiny.

“I… see.” The elf slowly approached the edge of the cliffside once again. He reached forward, seeming to grasp a door by its handle, before looking over his shoulder to address Rook once more. “I believe I have disturbed your rest long enough for one evening. Goodnight, Rook.”

In the blink of an eye, he was gone, leaving Rook alone in the dream of their own making. Without his presence to keep them focused, the grip on their awareness began to slip away. As they tumbled into dreams, the endless spans of colours melted away to become a much less welcome sight.

Asaaranda drifted off to sleep with the memories of Weisshaupt, and its subsequent fall.

**

Another week and a half in Crestwood later, the Inquisitor and their party finally returned to Skyhold. Rook all but raced to find Cole, barely even stopping to think about food, sleep, or a bath that they desperately needed.

Their highest priority was the Eluvian. If Cole had done his due diligence, which Rook had no doubt he would have because he was an absolute sweetheart, they would have some kind of information to start with from the books that Fiona had recommended.

He was up in the rafters of the Herald’s Rest – a common haunt of his – with Rook’s various books stacked neatly on a barrel beside him.

“Cole! Did you find anything?” Asaaranda asked as they approached.

“The books were helpful to start,” Cole replied with a nod of acknowledgement. “We should talk. Not here, it’s too loud to hear the Eluvian properly.”

“Sorry, you can hear it?” Asaaranda spluttered in disbelief. “Why didn’t you say before?”

“The mirror wants its secrets to be shown,” Cole explained. “But it wants it to be earned. I had to understand it first.”

Well, shit. Whatever worked, they supposed. As Asaaranda and Cole left the Herald’s Rest together, they quietly and quickly scurried over to the Courtyard where the Skyhold Eluvian had been tucked away in a little side room that Rook had happened to find by chance.

When the door clicked shut behind them, Rook couldn’t hide their anticipation as they turned to look at Cole expectantly. “Well?”

“The book talked about Arlathan,” Cole explained with a mournful hum. “At least in part. Why it was important to the elves of the Dales, as a symbol of what they’d lost. There was a Keeper in the book who remembered the Eluvians and their purpose.”

“Okay… That’s a start,” Asaaranda hummed, pleasantly surprised. “I don’t suppose this Keeper knew everything I need to know about how to get into this Eluvian, do they?”

Cole shook his head. “No… the Keeper only knew about the elves that used the Eluvians to escape the Imperium and how she wished the elves of Halamshiral could have used them.”

Rook winced. That was exactly the kind of thing that one hoped not to hear. “…anything else?”

“I asked the mirror what it wanted. It gave me a clue. Every Eluvian asks for a price. Like a door, it has a lock, and there is no universal key. The one that Bellara opened is different to Skyhold’s,” Cole reported dutifully. “’Be careful, da’len. It may ask for more than you should give.’”

“…it’s probably blood magic, isn’t it,” Asaaranda surmised with a grumble. “Well, fuck. Of course it is. I don’t know shit about how to use blood magic.”

There was no damned way to learn how to use Blood Magic in the middle of the Inquisition, not without drawing great attention, nor without risking great consequences with their friends and allies that they wouldn’t have an easy pass to undo.

Not to mention the actual risks of such a magic. Demonic possession really wasn’t on their high list of priorities, not in the middle of the fuckers all falling out of the sky. The one Abomination they knew was lovely, of course, but Spite was a much rarer demon than Despair, Rage, or Fear – which would be exactly the kind that Asaaranda thought that they would end up saddled with.

“I can’t just wait around for Morrigan though,” Asaaranda sighed dejectedly. “I can’t let things just go how they did last time. Somebody else in Thedas has to know how to access one of these things.”

Rook sat down against the wall across from the Eluvian with a sigh. “Any ideas Cole?”

The spirit boy furrowed his brow in concentration, continuing to seek out answers the way he knew how. In the blink of an eye, he disappeared, then returned and gingerly placed a copy of Tale of the Champion into Asaaranda’s lap.

“Tale of the Champion? What, you think I should just go talk to Varric about this?” Rook frowned, gently thumbing along the pages of the book.

“’If you don't get some sunshine, you'll wilt.’ She says she's not a plant, she's fine, but falling, faltering, foolish. Blood on her hands, people and demons always end in trouble. Too many Daisies in this garden,” Cole replied as cryptic as he ever was when he spoke of other people’s hurt.

“…Daisies?” Rook murmured in confusion. When had the Tale of the Champion ever referenced Daisies? Then it suddenly clicked. “Is Hawke still here, Cole?”

He nodded. “Legs aching, muscles worn down, age and old injury forcing them to rest. Worth the delay for one last night spent together, like how it used to be. He’s grateful you let them borrow your room for his heart’s sake.”   

Asaaranda rose onto their feet with a determined grin. “Then I know exactly who I have to talk to.”

Chapter Text

Pandora Hawke didn’t know exactly what to make of Rook. Varric had spoken highly of them, and not just for the fact that the Qunari had gone to the trouble of lending Hawke their quarters on the ground floor of Skyhold whilst they were here.

(It certainly earnt them some brownie points, even if Rook hadn’t exactly known it was necessary in order to accommodate Hawke’s scarcely known about disability. After all, it put a bit of a dampener on their heroic image if the infamous book about their life started with them barely surviving an ogre attack…)

Apparently, they reminded him of Hawke when they were younger. Earnest, if a little naïve. Determined to do good, and perhaps a little awkward, but with good humour as well. On top of that, Varric had declared that Rook was also ‘just as clumsy’ as Pandora was.

Considering that they’d heard how Rook’s latest injury had happened just moments before meeting them and Stroud at Crestwood, Pandora was somewhat inclined to believe that.

However, Hawke was loathe to take the opinion of their lover at his word alone. Not that it didn’t count for a significant portion of what Hawke would distinctly take into account, just that a decade of living in Kirkwall had made them somewhat twitchy about trusting anyone based on mere good word alone.

In regards to Rook, there was something about them that was distinctly… odd. Something that sat in their gut like a rock might, a deep sinking feeling of like the qunari mage was just out of place here.

“Merrill? That’s who you want to speak with?” Pandora questioned with a delicately arched eyebrow.

“If you can contact her, that would be great,” Rook told them with an eager nod. “I really think she would be helpful here, given her background and knowledge.”

Hawke frowned. “Isn’t that what you’ve got the Inquisitor and that odd Solas fellow for? How many elven cultural experts are you hoping to fit into one Chantry organisation?”

“Sabraen’s a bit busy making sure the world doesn’t fall apart. And Solas is… Solas,” Rook rebutted with a shake of their head. “I just think Merrill’s expertise would be really great. The Tale of the Champion said she restored that Eluvian in Kirkwall, didn’t she?”

“You do realise that book is mostly a bunch of exaggeration and lies to make sure the Chantry got off my and my friends’ backs, right?” Pandora asked with a somewhat fluttery sarcastic twang to their voice. “It’s almost entirely fiction.”

“Not the part about you defeating the Arishok, though,” Rook pointed out. “Pretty sure your title as Champion stuck.”

“Yes, well, as far as I’m aware, Varric specifically excluded the part where I got skewered on the end of the Arishok’s sword,” Pandora deadpanned. “I only won on a technicality because I managed to blow him up before I bled out.”

The Qunari Mage shrugged with a nonchalant grin. “Hey, a win is a win, organs falling out of your body notwithstanding.”

Pandora snorted in amusement. Alright, they had to concede that that was exactly the kind of joke that they also would have made when they were younger. No wonder Varric saw some similarities between them both. “Right. Well, look, I’ll try my best? I can’t guarantee she’ll come. Nor can I guarantee that your Inquisition will be all too pleased to have a known blood mage around…”

“I’ll make sure they won’t bother her,” Rook assured. “You have my word, Hawke.”

Figuring that there was no sense continuing to prolong this conversation, Pandora Hawke agreed. “Alright. I’ll send off a letter before I leave for the Approach. She’ll send a response back to you if she’s happy to come.”

The Qunari beamed brightly, as if the weight of the entire world had suddenly been lifted from their shoulders. With a zest and vigour that was infectious, Rook smiled at Hawke and shook their hand voraciously. “Thank you so much, Hawke. It really means the world to me. Thank you.”

With that, Rook seemed to almost skip away as they departed, leaving Pandora once again to their own devices. That had been a somewhat intense reaction from Rook for an otherwise perfectly normal conversation. Hawke had to admit they found it a little off-putting. People hadn’t been that enthusiastic about anything they’d done before, much less for something as mundane as sending a simple letter.

Pandora closed the door to their room and sighed uneasily. If she had to leave for the Western Approach in the morning, they’d have to send the letter tonight.

‘Dear Merrill,’ they began, like any other letter. ‘It’s me, Pen. Things have been tense, naturally. One would be surprised if the world wasn’t tense at the end of days, and all. But, I’m good! Mostly. This whole Grey Warden business seems like it’ll sort itself out sooner or later.’

Did that sound too pessimistic? If the goal was to get Merrill to come to the Inquisition, telling her ‘oh it’s all gone to shit but it’ll be fine later,’ probably wouldn’t be that helpful, Hawke supposed.

‘Dearest Merrill,’ they began again, on a different piece of parchment. ‘It’s me, your good friend Pandora. Varric and I are well, despite the giant hole in the sky. The Inquisition’s been wonderfully good to us, almost unexpectedly accommodating of mages and the like since the Conclave.’

That was quite honestly a bit too complimentary, they didn’t want to try too hard to get her here either. It was just as a favour to Rook after all, it wasn’t like her assistance was vitally important.

‘Merrill,’ Hawke wrote, once again. ‘Hope you’re doing well. The Inquisition has proved to be a useful force in dealing with the Breach and Corypheus, and their unexpected accommodation of the apostate mages has been gratifying, to say the least. If you’re able, I’ve a small favour to ask—’

Their trail of thought was abruptly halted, as the sound of knocking once again sounded at their door. Hawke grumbled slightly as they stood up from the desk and stumbled over to the entrance.

Luckily, their grumbling didn’t last long as they opened the door and their gaze fell upon the man on the other side of it. “Hey beautiful. Mind if I come in?” Varric greeted with a low rumble, as he braced against the doorframe roguishly.

“Oh, Varric! Thought it might have been Rook again,” Pandora chuckled warmly. “Come on in, I could do with some company.” They stepped to the side, allowing him entry, before closing the door behind him to keep out the chill of the mountain air.

Varric cocked his head with some interest, as he strode in and made himself comfortable, freeing himself of his thick outer coat. “Rook? What were they doing here?”

“Wanted me to get in contact with Merrill for the Inquisition, apparently,” Hawke shrugged, nonchalantly, gesturing to the drafts of letters on the desk. “Something about the Eluvian she repaired seemed to be of interest to them.”

“You mean the one that got her Keeper possessed and her entire Clan killed?” Varric guffawed, suddenly disturbed. “You’re kidding. That’s… a little concerning.”

“It felt odd, I’ll admit,” Pandora agreed with a hum. “I’d overheard there’s something going on with Corypheus and elven artefacts though. That might be part of it.”

“That just makes me more nervous,” Varric deadpanned. “Still… You think you’re gonna contact Daisy for them?”

Hawke glanced at him with a shrug, as they bent down to remove their greaves. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t? I thought you trusted Rook.”

“I do, I do,” the Dwarf reassured, as he took his place at the head of the bed. “I was just wondering if you didn’t. I’m personally quite fond of the kid, but if you noticed anything off…”

“They’re a little straightforward and awkward, perhaps,” Pandora shrugged, all the while continuing to shed pieces of their armour. “Makes me wonder why the Maker chose them to defend Thedas against destruction, you know? One might think he’d send someone a little more put-together.”

With the last of their armour gone, the Champion finally untensed and fell into bed beside their lover, who happily cradled them in his arms. He chuckled warmly. “Oh, I don’t know. I think the best heroes are those that feel like real people, who make mistakes and keep trying through all the bullshit.”

Varric punctuated that statement with a press of his lips to Pandora’s temple. “Kinda like someone else I know.”

Despite the scowl Hawke flashed him in response, their cheeks warmed under the affection. “Cheeky bastard. Turning this conversation into an excuse to get me into bed, are you?”

“I’m already in your bed, aren’t I?” Varric asked teasingly. Hawke chortled. “Well, technically, this is Rook’s bed.”

“Best we not do anything too untoward then, Messere Tethras?” the Dwarf teased, running his hand down Pandora’s waist nonetheless.

“Indeed, Master Hawke,” the Champion agreed in kind, even as they pressed their lips to the side of his jaw. “Wouldn’t want to make your friend think lesser of us. And besides, I’ve got an early morning. Gotta be up before first bell to meet Stroud in the Approach.”

Varric gave them a look of suspicion. “You’re not just coming with the rest of the Inquisition? It’d be a hell of a lot safer.” The comfortable flirtatious atmosphere slowly seeped away at his tone, making things between the two much more solemn.

Hawke sighed dejectedly. “I’ll take my chances, honestly. Not to disparage your new friends, they’re mostly lovely. I’d just prefer not to leave too many entanglements here.”

“Ah,” Varric said simply, despite the pit of despair forming in his gut. “I mean… Yeah. I guess if that’s your choice.”

“I was never going to stay here, Varric,” Hawke said pointedly. “You knew that, right?”

“I know, I know,” he reassured with a look of misery on his face nonetheless. “I’m just worried about you.”

Pandora sighed, tucking themselves further into Varric’s arms as if that would hide them from the difficult conversation Varric clearly wanted to have. “Can you pretend not to be? Just for tonight?”

It was a selfish request, Hawke knew that. To want to pretend like things were okay between them on possibly the last night they’d spend together like this for who knows how long… They’d been on the other side of this sort of request before, they knew that what they were asking was in and of itself a cruelty.

Nonetheless, he conceded. “Alright, Hawke.”

In the morning, true to their word, Pandora Hawke left Skyhold, with the letter addressed to Merrill sent along with them. Even though Varric had expected it, it didn’t make the longing any less.

**

Since Solas had appeared in their dreams while in Crestwood, Asaaranda had admittedly become a bit paranoid. If that was really him they’d spoken, and he was able to bring people into the Fade through sheer force of will alone – without the Blood Magic connection of their own time – then they needed something to protect themselves with.

Back to the Skyhold library for solutions, it seemed. They didn’t really have any other resources, at least not ones they were inclined to use. If Solas got wind of what they were up to, it could prove disastrous.

Still, the collection was not exactly what they needed, no matter how extensive it appeared. In their own time, they would have reached out to Myrna and Vorgoth for answers, or even happily walked down the hall from their room to Emmrich’s.

As much as Rook had started to trust and grow fond of Cole, his capacity for this sort of thing had its limits. He was a spirit of compassion – someone who wanted to help by nature, but that didn’t mean he had every single resource to do so with. He could read for them, but that’s as much as Asaaranda could ask of him.

Varric, their only other ally and friend in Skyhold, was someone they wanted to keep as far away from this as possible. If he knew what Rook was doing, he would feel responsible and even obligated to help. That had gotten him killed the last time.

Rook had to do this part alone, as much as it quietly pained them to do so.

They had slowly begun to memorise the Skyhold categorisation of books in a way that made sense to them. Most volumes were Southern Chantry, especially those just by the spiral stairs. There was a section on arcane history, divided by school of magic, near the research tables by Helisma. And everything else from there was a mishmash of things Rook had yet to explore by they hoped wouldn’t be needed.

It occurred to them that in all likelihood, the information they needed would be in the section they knew nothing about. Maker willing, the books would have enough pictures for them to make an educated guess.

As Asaaranda moved along the shelves, hopelessly gazing over the rows upon rows of covers that gave damn near no indication of their contents, they eventually settled in front of one shelf and plucked a book haphazardly from it.

It was a deep maroon colour with an otherwise unremarkable image of what looked to be the visage of a woman, holding a sword underneath a starry sky. That could be something. People dreamed of skies and swordswomen all the time.

They began to flip through the pages of the book, quietly scanning for any images within that would indicate its usefulness to protecting them from Solas. All too soon, they found themselves interrupted.  

“Is that a copy of the Randy Dowager Quarterly?” Dorian called out, as he swaggered over to them. “Awfully bold of you to be reading that out in public, you know.”

The Randy Dowager Quarterly, despite Rook never reading it for themselves, was infamous as a serial. Copies used to get passed around the Shadow Dragon headquarters like a sinful little secret that they all shared.

Which apparently Asaaranda had just blatantly grabbed without knowing.

Rook flushed, frowning at the book they’d pulled out from the shelves like it had personally offended them. “I… no, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I didn’t understand all of the fuss about the summer issue personally,” he added with a shrug. “Certainly scandalous enough for a common Chantry Sister with its blatant blasphemy, but the sex itself was rather contrite and dull by comparison to the setup, don’t you think?”

Asaaranda grimaced, shoving the book haphazardly onto the shelf. “I—really don’t… I just picked it up by chance.”

“If you’re after recommendations, I’m sure I could help you find something,” Dorian suggested, playful yet sincere in the same breath. “You’ll have better luck with me than Cassandra, Maker knows. The books that woman reads can hardly be called literature at all.”

Maker have mercy, Asaaranda prayed silently.

“I really don’t know what you’re hoping to get out of me from this,” Rook hissed lowly, cautiously. They were more startled than offended, truthfully. It’s not like they had known what book they’d picked up, and it wasn’t like Dorian had known that they didn’t know either.

It was still embarrassing. To be caught out holding a smutty serial when they didn’t even know how to read the bloody thing.

“I wanted to apologise, truthfully,” Dorian admitted with a sheepish expression. “I was untoward, back in Haven. I fear I was unnecessarily defensive of my homeland, in a way that dismissed your valid truths and concerns about the slave trade.”

“Oh,” Asaaranda said dumbly, unable to conjure up much more than that. After the conversation that they’d just had, they hadn’t expected the sudden pivot into a topic as personal or heavy as slavery. “Yeah, I… okay. Cool.”

“’Cool?’ After your reaction in Haven, I would have thought you would have a more significant reaction than just ‘cool,’” Dorian quipped, defaulting to humour and quick-witted banter like he always did when he was nervous or otherwise uncomfortable.

Asaaranda flashed him a grimace. “I don’t really know what else to say. I appreciate the apology.”

“I take it there’s a ‘but’ somewhere in that sentence,” he noted with a cock of his brow.

Rook sighed, crossing their arms as if to shield themselves from him. “But… unless you were able to dismantle the entire system of slavery in Tevinter yourself, an apology doesn’t really cover it.”

It was an unfair ask, for one man to be capable of doing such a thing. Even if it became illegal, altering the culture amongst the altus to ever give up their slaves required a complete overhaul of the Imperium.

Once, when Rook had been younger and more naïve, they had honestly thought a man like Dorian Pavus would be capable of such a thing. It was why they had joined the Shadow Dragons, to help others like themselves.

Now – here in this time – Asaaranda knew better. This Dorian of ten years before their own time was like all of his fellow Altus. Whether he actively bought and traded slaves or not was irrelevant, he still believed in the system that dictated slaves to be a lower class of people whose lot was a necessary evil.

“Rather a big ask, don’t you think?” Dorian chuckled weakly, though not accusatorily. “Hardly the sort of thing just one man could accomplish.”

“I’m aware,” Asaaranda shot back, somewhat petulantly. “It’s not like I personally expect you to do so, Dorian. But you have a lot more power back home than you seem to remember. More than most of us.”

“I see…” Dorian remarked, wisely keeping any deductions he’d made about Rook from that little slip of theirs to himself. “You’ve an excellent point. I’ll admit, until you and our dear Inquisitor called me out on it, I simply hadn’t thought about it. Not that that is an excuse.”

Rook sighed, feeling some of the tension begin to seep out of them. “It’s a start, that you’re thinking about it. And I really do appreciate the apology, Dorian.”

He smiled warmly at them in response. “I’m glad. Now I wasn’t kidding about helping you find something to read, you know. I’ve a series of recommendations that we can sort through according to your tastes.”

The man waggled his eyebrows at them suggestively, pulling another book from the same section with a contemplative and playful hum. “Ah, now this one might do. ‘Paragon Among Paragons, features an unlikely romance at the heart of the Stone. Join Saar and Bianca in the depths of the deep roads as they forge a bond unlike any other!’ That one sounds intriguing.”

Asaaranda chuckled lightly and shook their head, trying to hide the sudden flush creeping up their neck in response to Dorian’s ribbing. It had to just be a coincidence that had been the book he picked up.

“I’m actually looking for something on somniari, not romance serials. Any ideas on that topic?” Rook asked, somewhat sheepishly.

Dorian clicked his tongue contemplatively. “Hmm. There’s a few volumes that come to mind. I’m sure we can find something in this collection somewhere. If not, I’m sure it will prove a lovely bonding exercise.”

The remainder of the afternoon was spent sorting through books, and cautious exchanges of banter. And for the briefest of moments, Asaaranda Mercar saw the hints of the Dorian Pavus that they knew beginning to take form.

**

Leliana received dozens of reports almost every single day. Some of a higher priority than others, given their importance to the espionage and information she gathered in order to allow the Inquisition as many opportunities as it could gain.

‘Small incident with Arcane Research-Consultant Gereon Alexius and Ser Rook at around Fifth Bell on the listed date. Guards heard scream, investigations found the Qunari Mage on the floor in distress, fled when asked what was wrong. Alexius surrendered to further questioning with Inquisition Guards without argument. Awaiting confirmation from Nightingale before following up with Rook.’

It was from close to a week and a half ago, something that had slipped her notice entirely in amongst all the chaos that came from setting up in Skyhold and organising spies for the ball in Halamshiral.

Perhaps at one point she had seen it and deemed it not important. She dealt with subterfuge that could topple nations, a mere squabble with the recruited Magister seemed trite by comparison. Yet, something about it caught her eye today.

What reason did Rook have to be meeting with Magister Alexius in the first place? Their main duties to the Inquisition were accompanying the Inquisitor, and that was about it. Surely, there was no reason for Rook to be meeting with him, much less without it being common knowledge within the Inquisition’s Inner Circle.

Her eyes scanned over the stack of reports once again, seeking out the guards’ account from Alexius’ apparent interrogation. Alas, it was nowhere to be seen. If it was to be anywhere, Cullen would in all likelihood have a copy.

Determined to follow up on this little intrigue, Leliana decided to head to the Commander’s office across the other side of Skyhold. When she arrived, he was at his desk in conversation with some recruits.

“…understand if you’ve not got the time, Recruits, but I would appreciate it if you were able to undertake this for me,” he requested, with a somewhat strained nod.

The recruits, a svelte woman and broad man wearing armour – a pair of former Templars who had joined the Inquisition prior to Corypheus’ corruption of their comrades it seemed – beamed brightly at Cullen in response. “We would be honoured, Commander. To assist the Knight of the Maker themselves in their training is an endeavour we shall not take lightly, I assure you.”

Ah. They were also speaking of Rook, Leliana noted to herself silently.

“Thank you,” Cullen replied to them both. “I shall send word to Ser Rook within the hour to arrange a training session in the near future. You are both dismissed.”

‘With a salute each, the Templars departed, leaving Cullen and Leliana alone to talk.

“I did not know you were acting as a liaison for our dear Rook now, Commander,” Leliana hummed observationally. “Should we be adding this new duty to your payroll?”

Cullen shook his head, chuckling weakly. “I had promised to Rook ages ago that we might train together, but I’ve struggled to catch up with them lately. I figured Lysette and Harmon might offer more of a true Templar experience than I am currently able anyway.”

“I see,” she remarked, only becoming increasingly intrigued by the second. “Well, on the matter of Rook, I was wondering if you’d seen a Guard Report concerning them from a few weeks ago?

The Commander frowned in thought. “Huh. Perhaps. Let me have a look.” He walked over to the looming pile of papers on his desk and began to sort through them.

As he did so, Leliana asked. “I don’t suppose you’d know why Rook was asking to train with you?”

“Well, they mentioned never having encountered a Templar’s silencing before travelling to the Hinterlands,” Cullen replied, as he continued to shuffle through papers. “Given that the majority of Templars have now been corrupted to Corypheus’ side, we agreed that it was a necessity for them to learn how to overcome a Templar’s abilities.”

“It is unusual for an apostate to be unfamiliar with such a thing, wouldn’t you say so, Commander?” Leliana remarked coolly.

Cullen shrugged nonchalantly. “One could say the same of Solas or Dorian, I’d imagine. I’ve heard Solas talk about his experience with the Order as an almost academic endeavour. As for Dorian, in Tevinter, they don’t have proper Templars at all, just a bunch of toothless knights that parade around in armour.”

Tevinter. Why, of course, that had to be what Leliana was missing. Rook was from Tevinter. It certainly explained a few things, and offered possibilities for others. However, it also left her wondering – why had Rook, a Tevinter Qunari Mage, been at the Conclave at the first place?

Just as quickly as the thought came to her, a sudden fierce chill rushed through the air as the westernmost door flew open with a bang. The pile of papers on Cullen’s desk tipped over, all but racing through the wind and causing the Commander to chase after them with a curse.

Leliana rushed over to close it with a frustrated sigh, sealing the door shut and thus preventing any further chaos. As she turned on her heel, an uncanny feeling washed over her, like she had forgotten something.

Likewise, the Commander gave voice to the very same thing she was thinking.. “…what was I just doing?” Cullen wondered aloud, brow furrowed in concern. “Maker, I swear, I’ve been off my head lately.”

The Spymaster frowned. No matter how hard she thought about it, she simply could not recall. “Perhaps you ought to take a break, Cullen,” she suggested, electing to pivot from whatever else she had previously found to be important. “I hear that Madame de Fer’s personal tailor is here from Montsimmard to outfit the entire Inquisition Council in anticipation of the ball in Halamshiral.”

Cullen sighed, placing the last of his runaway papers on top of his desk. “An excellent point. I shall see what our chefs have prepared for lunch.”

The Spymaster and Commander of the Inquisition departed promptly after that, both carrying that uncanny feeling of having forgotten something, right up until they eventually forgot those feelings as well.

Unseen by them both, a blonde boy in a wide brim hat slipped away from the Commander’s Office and returned to his place above the Herald’s Rest with the now forgotten report in-hand. Before anyone could know any better, the papers had ended up in the fireplace by Maryden, turning to ash and dust to be carried off into the wind.

He had promised to help. This was part of that promise.

The time would eventually come where he couldn’t keep hiding their secrets for them. Until that day, Cole vowed to continue to help them move as unseen as possible through the Inquisition and help them accomplish their mission.

Not just for Asaaranda Mercar’s sake, but also for Solas’.

Chapter Text

Rook was starting to understand why they called Vivienne ‘The Iron Lady.’ She was incredibly formidable in battle, and just as intimidating in politics. Yet even that reputation did not compare to how terrifying she was about matters of dress.

“You’ve done some good work here, darling,” Vivienne commented, appraising the entire frame of Rook with her keen eyes. “I see you’ve taken on my initial feedback quite well.”

In anticipation of the ball in Halamshiral, Vivienne’s tailor had returned with adjusted designs and a loose mock-up of the actual outfit that Rook would be wearing at the Winter Palace so that he could make adjustments to the fit.

“I am glad you think so, Madame de Fer,” the Tailor beamed from under his mask. “I will admit, this was my first time tailoring for a person of Ser Rook’s size, but I do think I have achieved a considerable feat, you’ll agree.”

Asaaranda cringed internally, doing their best to suppress their immediate instinctive outward reaction. That had hit a rather tender spot. Growing up as the only Qunari in a community of humans and elves had often made them the odd-one-out. Very few even came close to their size back home, and they’d towered over both their mother and father by the time that they were ten.

It was, perhaps, an unintended jab. Yet it was one that made them feel like a druffalo stuffed into a dress.

Despite their best efforts to hide their offense, it appeared that Vivienne had noticed. She gave a contemplative hum. “Though… I fear the silhouette you’ve constructed is rather out of fashion. Surely, you can adjust the fit to something more in-season, yes?”

Her eyes seemed to sharpen as her tone became more biting and she went in for the kill. “I wouldn’t want you to be known as the tailor who could dare to embarrass the Knight of the Maker in front of the entire Imperial Court.”

The Tailor went a bright red in an immediate fluster. “Oh, no, of course not Madame de Fer! Let me find my other designs, I can make this right!” Hurriedly, the man made his way out of the room, leaving Vivienne and Rook alone.

Asaaranda couldn’t decide whether they were impressed or terrified with the way that had appeared to come so naturally to Vivienne.

“Are you alright, my dear?” she asked, with a surprisingly tender quality to her voice. “I had hoped he would have more sense than that, but apparently that trust was misplaced.”

It was a sharp contrast to the calm ferocity she had displayed just moments before, but it left Asaaranda with a familiar and sudden sense of unnerve. In a strange way, she almost reminded them of Solas.

“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” Rook admitted, tersely. “I can survive one jab at my appearance. Besides, I’m almost certain I’ll hear worse at the Winter Palace.”

Vivienne gave a slight nod with her lips pursed in a manner that seemed to indicate her distaste for the truth of the matter. “I’m afraid so. Many Orlesian nobles have never met one of your people before, and they may be inclined to treat you rather like a spectacle.”

“I can’t imagine you’ve met many Qunari before myself and Bull either, Vivienne,” Asaaranda observed. “We don’t tend to come this far South.”

“We get the odd mercenary company coming through Orlais,” Vivienne said, in something akin to agreement, though Rook truly couldn’t be sure with her. “Though you are indeed the first Qunari Mage I’ve ever known personally.”

Asaaranda nodded. “Makes sense. Not sure if we saw any Tal-Vashoth were among the Rebel Mages.”

“Speaking of… You’ve never been to a Circle, as far as I can tell, yet you’re remarkably skilled. Were you self-taught?” Vivienne inquired, in a manner that one could have almost mistaken for casual.

If not for their experience with talking to Solas, Asaaranda might have thought she was just curious rather than calculating. The trap she had laid was evident, but they saw no reason to avoid it.

After all, if she wanted to probe them for details on their life, they wanted to have control over them while they could.

“Something like that,” Rook replied, after a brief moment of contemplation. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say self-taught, but I wasn’t ever in a Circle myself, no.”

“I see,” she hummed in acknowledgement. “I suppose that would make your parents apostates as well?”

Well, that was a baseless assumption that she had apparently pulled out of her arse. Definitely not the sort of thing that Asaaranda had expected her to say after so much scrutiny. “…not exactly?” Rook coughed awkwardly. “I don’t… why do you ask?”

That turned out to be the incorrect response, as the Enchanter sighed dejectedly and shook her head in clear disapproval.

“These are the sorts of questions you should expect to be asked at the Winter Palace, Ser Rook,” Vivienne clarified. “Whether based in reality or not, there are things you should expect to be of great interest to the Imperial Court.”

Like their magic and their race. Undoubtedly, Vivienne was speaking from a place of genuine experience in that regard. Yet another moment where Varric’s advice had made its usefulness evident – people would see what cards they held, intentionally or not.

It was just as well for them to bluff their hand to take control of the Game.

“I wouldn’t know,” Rook decided to say after a moment of contemplation. “I never had the fortune of meeting them myself.” They were referring to their Biological parents, of course. They still couldn’t let themselves be traced back to the Mercars.

“I see. It’s not a terrible thing to say if your goal is pity,” Vivienne appraised. “However, you are the Knight of the Maker. Defender of the Herald of Andraste. You must endeavour to not appear weak before the court, lest they eat you alive.”

“What would you advise that I say instead?” Asaaranda asked with a huff. “I don’t know anything about the Circles. Not enough to lie.”

Vivienne offered a veritable verbal shrug, as she coolly suggested, “Try something that emphasises your own skill, rather than the tragedy you faced. They should think you a peer, so never give them reason to undermine you.”

Rook grimaced, electing not to say anything further for their own benefit. The very thought of appearing in court at the Winter Palace made them nauseous, and while Vivienne’s advice would undoubtedly be helpful, it didn’t do anything to quell their rising stomach issues.

Fortunately, they needn’t have worried about what to say next.

“Here we are!” the tailor declared as he re-entered the room, all but breaking the ongoing tension. “You’ve a very keen eye, Madame de Fer. I honestly cannot thank you enough for your continuing feedback. I do hope you see the merit in this next design. Very popular silhouette this season, a bit more masculine perhaps, but very chic and universally flattering.”

He handed Asaaranda the outfit and ushered them behind the temporary privacy curtain they had put up in the corner for them to change. After some great effort on their part, it turned out to be all for naught. “It doesn’t fit,” Rook called out. “I might just have to wear the other thing you had me try.”

“Come on out, my dear,” Vivienne called. “I assure you, it will be fine.”

Reluctantly, Asaaranda stepped out from behind the curtain and made themselves known.

The trousers that they’d been provided were well-cut, nicely accentuated the length of their legs and the broadness of their thighs. Unfortunately, that was where the positives ended. The undershirt was so loose and oddly cut that they could fit the collar around the outsides of their shoulders. The jacket, in contrast, was far too small and didn’t even remotely cover their bust.

It truly felt like they were being subject to some kind of bizarre humiliation ritual.

Vivienne’s expression noticeably fell as she looked at the state of the poor Qunari. “Ah. I see what you mean.”

“I will avert my eyes for your dignity’s sake, Ser Rook,” the Tailor assured, turning sharply on his heel with an apologetic bow. “I cannot apologise enough to you both. I swear this does not usually happen. I have a new apprentice, he must have taken some creative liberties with the measurements.”

The First Enchanter gave him a scathing look. “You would trust a commission from the Inquisition itself in the hands of a mere apprentice?”

“A grave misjudgement,” the Tailor insisted, looking incredibly cowed. “One I intend to make up for with a reduction in payment as well as free readjustments should they be required.”

It was like being caught in the middle of an argument between their parents. Asaaranda winced, silently longing to throw themselves through the doors and hide out of sight from everyone.

Just as that thought crossed their mind, the doors burst open with a glorious clatter. On the other side, standing witness at the apex of their disaster, was possibly the only person that could have made that situation more mortifying than it already was.

It was in that moment that Rook knew they had to be having some kind of awful vicious nightmare.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, am I early?” Harding squawked frantically, rushing to shield her eyes from Asaaranda’s relative state of undress. “I thought we were scheduled for second bell this afternoon, I must’ve got the times wrong.”

“Not at all, my dear. We’ve been running a bit late, it seems,” Vivienne reassured, before turning to the tailor with a hum. “Obvious problems aside, I think this cut generally accentuates their figure much better, now that they don’t bare resemblance to a tent. Once you correct the fit, I will be satisfied. Yet, I can’t help but feel something is missing.”

“I had wondered, hence why I thought to show you the first design before this one. Is there something we can do about the broken horn? It’s awfully distracting. Such a visible battle wound, it makes them look like a common thug,” The tailor contemplated.

“I’ll have to ask The Iron Bull,” Vivienne decided. “I am sure there is something we can do that will be appropriately elegant.”

“Ah, speaking of… Given that the works of my apprentice will need far more correction than we will be able to complete today, shall we move onto our next appointment, Madame de Fer?” the Tailor asked, gathering up his materials. “I would not wish to impose further on your schedule, given the fault lies with my company.”

“Indeed,” she agreed coolly. “Let us hope we can proceed without further incident. I would hate for this transgression to reflect poorly on our future business.”

With that, Vivienne and her tailor departed, leaving the half-naked Rook and utterly mortified Scout Harding alone together in the war room with nothing to do but stare at each other in a mixture of disbelief and uncertainty.

“I… am so sorry,” Harding mumbled with bright red cheeks. “I should have knocked.”

“It’s okay,” Asaaranda reassured, their own expression mirroring Lace’s. “You weren’t to know. Besides, it’s on me for getting my tits out in the middle of the war room.”

A scandalised but undeniably amused snort echoed throughout the room, as Harding wheezed through the burst of laughter rushing forth from her chest. “Maker’s breath, Rook, you… you really get to me sometimes.”

“I try,” Asaaranda chuckled lightly, feeling some of the embarrassment seep away with each giggle. They quickly retrieved the rest of their clothes to cover up with, after turning sharply on their heel so that their back was to the embarrassed scout.

They finished rebuttoning up their doublet and then turned to Harding with a shy grin. “There we go. All tucked away, no chance of any more accidental exposures, I promise.”

“Good,” Harding replied with a sheepish smile. “I don’t think I’d be able to teach you what to do if that happened on the dance floor in Halamshiral.”

“It might liven things up, I don’t know,” Asaaranda shrugged, still smiling shyly. “Or, I’ll start a new fashion trend and everyone in Orlais will be rushing to show off their favourite boob.”

Harding shook her head through another laugh. “Maker, can you imagine that? Dozens of people walking around looking like Dorian does.”

“Like I said, might liven things up in there,” Rook shot back, smiling with much more confidence. “Maybe I should l make sure my dancing is up to speed just in case, anyway.”

“Right! Yes, sorry, that is what I’m supposed to be here for,” Harding chuckled shyly. “Have you practiced much since our last lesson?”

“Where possible. I mean, when I’m not getting chased by demons and such,” Asaaranda replied, truthfully. “I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

It had been awkward, practicing without a partner, but they weren’t going to ask anyone to dance with them while they were out and about the southern countryside. That would have been far more mortifying.

“Great! That’s good to hear,” she said, beaming wide at Asaaranda. “So, um, I think we can start with memorising the overall routine now? It’s basically a big combination of all the stuff I taught you and the Inquisitor last time, but slightly faster.”

Harding took Asaaranda by the hand and guided them to place it onto their shoulder. “So, um, normally, you’d hold onto your partner’s waist, but I’m a bit short for that. Obviously.”

“Well, I’m a bit tall,” Rook reassured. “It’s the steps that matter, right?”

The dwarf nodded. “Yep, yeah, indeed. Okay. Um. Let’s… let’s do this, just starting with the basic pattern? One, two, three and…”

She began to count the rhythm, allowing the both of them to settle into the dance, despite the lack of music. After several moments of Harding’s tension becoming increasingly more obvious, Rook decided they couldn’t take it anymore.

“Are you alright?” Asaaranda asked, concern washing over them. “You seem distracted.”

Harding nodded rapidly, expression switching rapidly to a much more forced smile. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine! I am… all good, Rook. Don’t worry about me.”

“It’s okay if you’re not,” Asaaranda insisted, continuing to step in time with her. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Harding sighed slightly, as her forced smile made way for a much more vulnerable look. “Honestly? I just had a chat with Sister Leliana that’s kinda shaken me a bit.”

“She definitely has that effect on people,” Rook agreed, sympathetically. “What was it about?”

“Apparently… she’s organised an invitation for me to join the Inquisition at the Winter Palace as a guest,” Harding admitted sheepishly. “She said it was vital that I attend and then I kinda blacked out because Andraste’s ass, she wants me to go to the Winter Palace with the rest of you.”

Ah.

There was no way that could be by accident. As far as Rook knew, Harding hadn’t attended the Winter Palace ball during the previous Inquisition. Had something changed this time round to prompt her sudden invitation?

There was the obvious answer – that Leliana had noticed something between them, but that should have been impossible. As friendly as Rook had continued to be with Harding, they’d also tried as much as possible to maintain a polite distance.

Yet, if Leliana’s reputation was to be believed, she didn’t rely on coincidence to gather information. She had to have some other reason for getting Harding an invitation.

In an attempt to remain casual, Rook continued to dance with their partner with a warm and patient smile. “If it helps, I’m as nervous about it as you are. It sounds like an incredibly grim affair.”

Harding snorted weakly. “To say the least. Honestly, I’ve been less scared scouting out dragons nests than I am about this ball. I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear or how to act.”

“From all my lessons with Madame Vivienne, it all seems arbitrary,” Rook assured. “Sure, we could be the pinnacle of grace and charm, but choosing the incorrect spoon at dinner? A capitol offense, naturally.”

Harding groaned, “Maker preserve me, that’s not helping.”

“Sorry,” they replied, sheepishly. “I think we’ll be fine. Most of the attention is bound to be on poor Sabraen, anyway. I’m of the opinion that one of the best places to hide is in a crowd full of people. You might be surprised how well you handle yourself out there, La—love.”

It wasn’t until Harding’s cheeks lit up with a deep blood-red blush that Rook even realised what they had said. In an effort to conceal their unintentional slip of the tongue by calling Harding by her first name – something she’d not revealed to anybody, and something that they feasibly could not have known – they’d ended up calling her by the closest possible nickname that they could conjure up instead.

Love.

Somehow that had been an even worse outcome than when they’d called her amatus upon reuniting with her in the Hinterlands several months ago. At least then, there had been some plausible deniability.

Here, there was none.

Rook’s stomach did horrible overjoyed backflips at Harding’s surprised but otherwise not displeased expression. They had to force themselves not to look further into her reaction, to search for things that could not be there.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

Yet even those assertions did not stop the warmth that rushed through them as Harding seemed to light up at their words. She seemed to shine in the light, the faintest hint of crows feet wrinkles making themselves known at the corners of her eyes.

 “You really have a way of making a girl feel like she could take on the whole world - did you know that, Rook?” she asked with a playful cock of her head.

It was with that single phrase that Rook was absolutely certain they were doomed.

**

The Western Approach was scorching hot during the day, and freezing cold at night. It was also full of local wildlife that weren’t particularly friendly, oodles of Darkspawn, Venatori, and scattered remnants of the Grey Wardens that had once occupied the ruins and fortresses throughout the desert. It was also where Hawke and Stroud had gone to hunt down their leads on the Wardens, and where Rook, Sabraen, and their accompanying companions Blackwall, Sera, and Solas were expected to meet them.

The main point of interest was a Warden Outpost, the architecture of which was not unlike the Cauldron in Lavendel.

It was with an uncanny feeling of déjà vu that Rook followed dutifully behind the Inquisitor to the outpost where several Wardens and one noticeably Tevinter mage had already gathered an array of demons.

In addition, there were piles of discarded corpses of warden warriors that had been bled dry and used as a power source for the summoning of the aforementioned demons. Each spirit of rage, each shade – all of them had their gazes turned towards the Tevinter mage at the helm of the fortress as if awaiting command.

Likewise, the mage wardens did too, eyes and bodies glowing powerfully, in a way that Rook had only seen from the likes of Lucanis and Spite. All of the Warden mages were possessed, Asaaranda realised with a gut-sinking feeling.

If this was the state of the Southern Wardens already, it was no wonder that they hadn’t been able to aid in defending the South in the decade to come.

“Inquisitor. What an unexpected pleasure. Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, at your service,” the man greeted with an exaggerated bow, radiating absolute disdain all the while.

Erimond. Asaaranda had heard that name before, they were almost certain. Not even in the context of the Inquisition either. A Felicia Erimond had come up as a figure of concern a few times to the Shadow Dragons.

They supposed that Tevinter Supremacist asshole tendencies probably ran in the family.

“You are not a Warden,” Stroud determined, shock and rage evident in his tone.

“But you are. The one that Clarel let slip,” Erimond shot back, immediately dismissing any precedent for pleasantries as he sneered. “And you’ve brought the Inquisitor, I see.”

His eyes darted from Sabraen, apparently surveying the group, when his gaze suddenly fell upon Asaaranda with the faintest hint of intrigue. “And you. The supposed Knight of the Maker. I’ve heard much about you.”

“I don’t care what you’ve heard,” Asaaranda shot back, trying to hide their spike in deep unnerve. “Let the Wardens go, you coward.”

An aghast and amused chortle left Erimond’s lips in response. “Strong words from an oxman with no power. Even if I could release them from what these brave people willingly gave themselves to, what makes you think I would ever deign to listen to you, Qunari?”

Stroud was the first to give word to the conclusion that Rook had already come to. “Corypheus has taken their minds…”

“Fucking Venatori. Opportunistic bastards,” Rook hissed. “Are you so intent on seizing power that you’ll fall to the feet of any crazed blighted master throwing scraps off the table?”

“The Elder One commands the Blight. He is not commanded by it, like the mindless darkspawn,” Erimond mocked, waving his hand dismissively. “The Blight is not unstoppable or uncontrollable. It is simply a tool.”

“You’re a fool for serving Corypheus and you’re a fool for thinking that you could ever harness the Blight! You don’t even know what it is!” Rook snarled, furiously.

“And you do?” he asked, rhetorically, all but stunning them into silence. There was nothing more that they could or should say. Not with Solas here.

Asaaranda seethed quietly, longing desperately to strike at him, but thinking better of it. There was more the Inquisitor needed to learn from him. And these kinds of pricks were incredibly fond of their dramatic monologues.

“The Elder One showed me how to deal with you, in the event you were foolish enough to interfere again,” Erimond sneered, as he began to manipulate the mark on Sabraen’s hand in a dark red glow. “You stole that from my master. He’s been forced to seek other means of accessing the Fade.”

Rook subtly stiffened. They hadn’t known that was an ambition of Corypheus’. If he learnt of the Lighthouse… it could damn well be a repeat of what Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain sought to achieve in their own time.  

Another reason to keep it to themselves for now.

“When I bring him your head, his gratitude will be—hah!” he cut himself off with a shriek of alarm as the rift Sabraen opened behind him exploded and sent him tumbling onto the ground.

The sight of Erimond doubled over his own ass was satisfying, but there was hardly any time to enjoy it as the possessed wardens shuddered and turned to attack them all on his command. “Kill them!”

The Warden Abominations were dead before Rook had fully processed it. In the skirmish, Erimond had apparently found the gap to flee.

“Shame about prissypants getting away,” Sera tutted with a scowl, as she pulled some of her arrows from the corpses of the Wardens. “Would’ve liked to see how he looked with an arrow between that smug face of his.”

“You can say that again,” Sabraen grumbled. “No matter. We’ll catch him next time. We just need to track him down.”

“I have an inkling of where he’s retreated,” Stroud reported grimly. “There’s an abandoned Warden fortress much further west – Adamant. It would be the perfect place to hide.”

“If you and I go scout it out and confirm that the wardens are there, the Inquisitor and the rest can deal with the rifts in the area in the meantime,” Hawke suggested. “Then we all meet back at your main camp to report back.”

“Do we have time for that?” Asaaranda questioned. “Why don’t we just do something about Erimond now?”

“We don’t have the means to take on the entirety of the Orlesian Wardens alone, Rook,” Stroud pointed out with a shake of his head. “There are far too many of them, we’d be at a severe disadvantage.”

Blackwall gave a grumbling sound of agreement. “I agree. A mere seven people can’t siege an entire fortress, let alone one filled with demons and abominations.”

“If you can deal with any Venatori in the area, it may loosen their foothold and provide enough of an edge for us to take down the corrupted wardens later,” Hawke pointed out. “That may be more valuable than a suicide run.”

Sabraen nodded. “That’s fine. There’s another fortress near our main camp. Our scouts saw signs of Venatori there, we should check it out.”

With that course of action decided, Rook continued to follow behind the Inquisitor as they all headed back to the ruins that were a short distance from the Lost Spring Canyon Camp.

The palace itself was suitably Imperial, given all of the details that screamed ‘Tevinter’ from the tops of their lungs. It was also crawling with Venatori almost like an infestation, so not unlike the higher regions of Minrathous itself, Rook supposed.

After making quick work of the Venatori gathered outside, they all quickly made their way inside of the fortress.

It proved to be well-worth the time. Inside of the rather spacious entrance to the palace, rubble and other signs of great disaster alike were scattered everywhere. There were great shards of ice, as tall as trees that splintered up from the ground in a tableau of magical fallout.

But that was not what made Rook suddenly become wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

Everything was frozen in time. Demons, spirits, mages who appeared to have been frozen along with them while fighting, and an absolutely massive rift that tore through the sky but was unmoving.

Sabraen blinked at the scene before them in amazement. “Everything’s… frozen. Somehow, I don’t think this was the Venatori.”

Sera grimaced, looking almost nauseous at the sight of it all. “Whatever’s going on, I don’t like it. Let’s just deal with whatever and get out.”

There was a discarded note atop one of the crates in front of the rift, which Sabraen picked up and began to read  aloud, “’Lucanus: The references are obscure, but they point to a single power, sealed at the height of the old empire. Tevinter's involvement in the region predates the First Blight. Detailed accounts of the location are non-existent, but there are some promising leads. You will be provided with men and supplies.’”

“Do not return empty-handed,’” they finished with a furrow of their brow. “Well. Whatever it is this Lucanus is looking for, we should try and get there first. Who knows what it is that led them here?”

Sabraen handed the note over to Asaaranda, who pretended to appraise the words critically, as if to confirm what the Inquisitor had read. All the while, they had already come to their own conclusion.

“…that note seems to indicate whatever happened here predates the Breach,” Asaaranda muttered in realisation. “That means the spell that froze everything in time predates Alexius’ ‘invention’ of time travel.”

It could well mean that Alexius’ theory about time travel only being possible through the Breach was wrong. If Tevinters of the past had the means to freeze time, why wouldn’t they also have the means to travel through it?

While Sabraen surged ahead, determined to unravel the puzzle of the Ruins, Rook quietly slipped the note into their pocket to show Alexius later. Though they had left things off in a bad position last time, he needed to see these.

Additionally, despite the fact that they had elected to stay with the Inquisition and stop Solas that way, it could only be a good thing to understand the other possibilities. They still didn’t completely understand how their arrival here had been possible, after all. There was no indication that it could not happen again.

“Let’s be careful,” Sabraen urged. “If time magic is involved, we really have no idea what we’re walking into.”

Every single corner of the ruin uncovered more mysteries and undiscovered histories left behind. Any stray slip or scrap of paper that Rook could find within the ruins, they quickly took for themselves.

Something had to be of some use. Quietly, they mourned the fact that Cole had not been with them for the Approach, otherwise he might have been able to help. As it was, all they could do was gather it all indiscriminately. Alexius would have to do his own vetting of the papers they found.

**

Upon dealing with the Still Ruins, they had all returned back to camp and regrouped with Stroud and Hawke. The pair confirmed that the Grey Wardens were indeed set up within the walls of Adamant.

Not long after that, they all returned to Skyhold for an urgent meeting in the War Room – Stroud and Hawke included. After they had explained the situation, the council was abuzz with discussion.

“So, we organise a siege upon Adamant Fortress then?” Cullen concluded. “It will take time to rally our forces for such an attack, but it will be done.”

“We cannot prioritise the siege over the ball at Halamshiral,” Josephine reminded. “As much as Corypheus’ demon army presents a great threat, the would-be assassin of Empress Celene will undoubtedly strike at the ball. It cannot be rescheduled.”

Sabraen cleared their throat, interjecting with, “Is our attendance strictly necessary? Can’t we just warn Celene?”

“We have tried,” Leliana replied with a shake of her head. “Every one of our communications to her have been intercepted. The only way to get close to her and prevent the attack is going to the ball.”

“Can you truly afford to let Corypheus turn more Wardens into blood sacrifices and abominations while you all play fancy dress?” Pandora questioned. “I would think stopping an army of demons would be more important than whoever’s arse sits on the throne, no?”

“Both tasks are as important to stop Corypheus as the other,” Asaaranda insisted, determined to break up this back and forth so they could deal with their own business. “Adamant and Halamshiral are both of great concern – the events of Redcliffe proved that.”

Hawke frowned in concern. “What happened at Redcliffe?”

“It’s a long story,” Sabraen cut in. “But Rook is right. We can’t afford to take chances on either the Wardens or Celene. That we’re stretched thin by time is likely a deliberate effort on Corypheus’ part.”

“I suppose I’ll stick around here until you’re ready to head to Adamant, then?” Hawke concluded with a shrug.

“I can get you an invitation if you like, Champion,” Josephine offered, pointedly. “There would be many at the Winter Palace who I am sure would be interested in meeting with you.”

Pandora sighed, “I appreciate that, but I’d really rather not. The Inquisition will have enough issues to deal with. I’m sure I’ll only add to your problems.”

“Besides, now that it is known to Corypheus’ forces that Hawke and I are against them, I fear either of our presences will tip your would be assassin off,” Stroud suggested grimly. “It is better that we help your men prepare for the dangers of Adamant.”

“Very well,” Cullen conceded. “I can have you both meet with our men to discuss a plan of action in the coming days. I would appreciate if you could lead them while we are at Halamshiral, Warden Stroud.”

“Happy to do so, Commander,” the Warden agreed with a bow.

With that the meeting concluded, and Asaaranda was finally free to return to their own business. When they arrived back to their quarters, Cole was in there waiting for them.

“Oh, hey!” Asaaranda greeted. “Good timing. I was just about to go see if I could get some notes from the Approach to Alexius. Think you can help me out?”

“Hand trembling with pen in hand, thoughts racing. Across the sea where he said it would be safe, she wonders if she’s ready to go through with it again,” Cole muttered rapidly in lieu of a reply. “Can’t let it hurt anyone else. Can’t let them make the same mistakes. Have to help. Have to make it right.”

Rook frowned, trying to discern what he could be talking about. “Is this…?”

“A letter arrived. I slipped it from Varric’s mail pile before he noticed it was there,” Cole clarified, as he held up the envelope for them to see. “Merrill said she’ll come to help you.”

Asaaranda’s heart leapt up in their chest. “She sent a reply? Already? She’s truly coming here?”

“’Dear Rook,’” he began, reciting what he’d read from the letter dutifully. “’Hawke’s word means much to me, they told me I can trust you and so I’m hopeful that is true. I am happy to come to the Inquisition and assist you where I can.’ She wants to make sure you don’t get hurt.”

Merrill was actually coming to the Inquisition. Hawke had followed through on their promise and actually sent her to help. Not that Rook had doubted Hawke’s trustworthiness, of course. They just hadn’t had a win this significant in ages.

Between Merrill’s oncoming arrival and the discovery of the Still Ruins, things were looking up once more. They just had to keep trying to make it all work.

“Thank you, Cole,” Rook remarked, embracing him tightly. “This really means the entire world to me.”

He stiffened into the embrace, apparently unsure of how to return it, before settling in with a pat on their back. His help had truly been an invaluable part of their continued fight.

First, Rook would tackle the Winter Palace. Then, with both Merrill and Cole's help, they would finally take back the Lighthouse.

Solas was bound to have absolutely no idea what would hit him.

Chapter Text

The undeniable truth was that Solas found himself to have a few suspicions regarding Rook.

Inquisitor Lavellan, at least, had a reason to have survived the blast at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. They had somehow ended up with his Anchor from his Foci and thus wandered through the Fade when the blast went off. He had his agents leave the orb for Corypheus to find, which was supposed to have killed the blasted Darkspawn.

Instead, it had resulted in this. A Dalish Elf who he now considered a dear friend, doomed to a fate they had only received because he had been too foolish to anticipate that a creature like Corypheus would have unlocked the power for effective immortality.

The Anchor was not meant for one such as Sabraen Lavellan to carry. Indeed, nothing short of Solas’ own blood and flesh was right for the task. In the Anchor’s creation, he had made sure of that fact – that he would be the only one capable of bearing it.

When he had approached the Inquisition and learned that his Anchor had fallen into the hands of the young Dalish Elf, he had been both relieved and deeply pained by that fact.

It meant that Corypheus did not possess it, but it also meant that they were going to suffer the burdens of his magic’s intended protective measures. It had meant that all that stood between Thedas falling to his mistake was but a single Dalish Elf – the only one who had any reason to have survived.

Rook, on the other hand, had no apparent reason to have come from the rift at the Temple. They were no spirit, nor some being between states of being like Cole. They were just… an undeniably regular Qunari.

It meant that they had no magical reason to have been able to survive the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It seemed that they had come from the Fade itself with no apparent connection to it.

Even the friends he had among the spirits and indeed the Fade itself seemed to have no idea about Rook. If they knew anything at all, they did not share their knowledge with him. It was disquieting to say the least.

Normally, he would have attempted to gain information about them through conversation, but it seemed like Rook was intent on avoiding him. Unlike the Inquisitor, who readily sought him out for camaraderie and advice, Rook never initiated any interactions. 

It wasn’t like they were unfriendly. Rook had shown themselves to have built a strong rapport with Varric, Cole, Scout Harding, and Sabraen. The rest of the Inner Circle were treated with polite acknowledgement, himself generally included.

They just seemed intent on distancing themselves. That behaviour on its own shouldn’t really have been cause for alarm. Yet that combined with the other things he’d noticed felt too big to brush aside as mere oddities.

Rook’s lack of personal history, for one. Everyone else in the Inquisition had some kind of story, some kind of reason to be there. Rook appeared to have none, at least none they elected to share on their own.

Others within the Inquisition had more or less discerned that Rook had been a Tevinter Slave, regardless of any lack of the Qunari’s admittance of that fact. But that was where the information on their history ended.

There was the chance that they had been a slave of Corypheus himself, and kept it hidden for fear of revealing a relationship that might incriminate them. Solas thought that was unlikely given the Darkspawn Magister’s habit for binding those he controlled by magical means.

The more likely scenario was that Rook had simply fled Tevinter and hoped that by keeping it to themselves, that any connection to their old life would naturally sever. He had seen it in slaves before – that burning desire to gain normalcy and dignity through sheer force of will. Most cracked under that pressure.

Undoubtedly, with the scrutiny of the Inquisition, Solas had no doubt that Rook would too.

Thus, he would be patient. If they were truly a threat, they would reveal their hand eventually. And if they were not, then it wouldn’t matter regardless. Not once he had the Foci back in his possession.

In the meantime, he was content to continue amongst the Inquisition. With the Winter Palace ball coming up, it would mean a chance to return to the courtly intrigues he had not been a part of in so many years.

He found himself quite eager for the occasion.

First on the agenda for the preparations was arranging his outfit for the evening. Josephine had already confirmed that the Inquisition had specifically prepared garments for everyone, and that all he needed to do was meet with the hired Tailor to allow for any alterations.

When Solas arrived to the War Room, as instructed, he was greeted not by the usual war table set-up with the map and pieces used for stratagem – instead, it was not unlike the back of a Tailor’s shop.

A rack filled with hung garments to one side, extra rolls of fabric, bobbins of thread, and various sized needles to the other. Full-length mirrors seemingly covered the back wall and atop a pedestal was none other than the very same person he had been hoping to see.

Rook was standing there, adorned in a fine dark green velvet doublet with golden accents and a pair of well-cut trousers. Their previously broken horn had been grafted to the shard of their old one held in place by gold and emerald-studded bands that wrapped around the weak points of the break.

Their long black hair had been braided into their typical double braids, but with an added weaving of golden string throughout the locks that complimented the gold in the curve of their horn.

It was unusual to see a Qunari dressed in such exquisite finery, but to Rook’s credit, they held themselves well. Not exactly with confidence, mind, more like polite resignation. Their eyes flickered to Solas’ own as he entered, then darted away just as quickly as they had deigned to look at him.

Meanwhile, Madame de Fer, the Iron Bull, and the hired Orlesian tailor were busy at work, darting around Rook in observation.

“This truly was such an excellent suggestion, Iron Bull,” Vivienne hummed in approval. “The entire look is now not only practical, but attractive and speaks to their individual character. I daresay there won’t be anything like this on display anywhere else in the Imperial Court.”

“Glad you approve, ma’am,” The Iron Bull replied with a nod.

“How is the fit, Ser Rook?” The Tailor asked. “Comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you,” Rook confirmed, with a polite if somewhat terse nod. “Much better than before.”

“Excellent,” the Tailor breathed out in undeniable relief. “Truly excellent.”

Vivienne turned her attention to Solas’ presence in the room. “Ah, there you are, Solas. Well timed. Jean-Luc is ready for you.”

He was led over to the rack of clothes by said Orlesian Tailor, who produced Solas’ outfit from amongst the crowd of other clothing items.

The outfit was crafted well enough, certainly. A classic Orlesian-style cut doublet in a warm red wit yellow-ish accents and tied blue sashes across the waist and left shoulder, complimented by the matching yellow gloves, and a tan pair of leather drawers with a matching thigh-high pair of boots.

It was flashy, bordering on gaudy, yet it worked. Exactly the kind of thing that the Inquisition needed to be in order to survive an Orlesian Game. All eyes would already be on them, why not proceed unabashedly?

If it had been the days of Arlathan, constructions of garments would be done with magic in addition to physical materials. Displays of power or political stance would be accompanied by all manners of magical dress, ranging from cloaks made from stars, to gowns built entirely of remnants of strong emotions.

Since he could not replicate such a feat in this disconnected reality, he had made his own arrangements to present to the Inquisition’s hired Tailor.

“I cannot help but notice the lack of any headpieces, Sir Jean-Luc,” Solas noted, with a strictly non-judgemental hum. “Is it not the current fashion in Orlais to wear hats and the like to events such as these?”

The Tailor gave him a look that did little to hide his thinly veiled sneer. “Ah, yes. Well, Madame de Fer and I decided between us that our Qunari friends presented a great challenge in terms of accessories. The idea was to have everyone, save Ser Rook and the Inquisitor, match in uniform to present a united front. Thus, we elected not to make any hats.”

“Do you have an issue with that, Solas, darling?” Vivienne questioned, in a tone so distinctly venomous that even the unskilled could have spotted her disdain for him laden amongst the forced politeness.

“Not at all,” he reassured. “I had just wanted to run an idea by you both. Feel free to disregard it if you wish.”

He held out the paper for Jean-Luc, the Tailor, to appraise and dissect. It had been a sketch that he’d drawn up after much research and contemplation. A Helm of Drasca, once worn by those in the Anders who opposed Orlais in the days of the Second Blight, modified to show off his ears in an unashamed display of his race.

It would probably go over everyone’s heads, but the intent was the same: an insult of the very foundation of Orlais itself. A dismissal of their power and empire, a reminder that for all of their pomp and posturing – there were those who dared to stand against them.

“The hat is… certainly an idea,” the Tailor decided, barely able to stomach looking at the thing in Solas’ hands without going green around the gills. “I suppose it will at least serve to cover the glaring baldness.”

Vivienne gave a contemplative hum. “Is this some manner of traditional dress for your people, Solas?”

He was about to answer when Rook suddenly gave a short and sharp giggle from across the room, piercing through the conversation and drawing everyone’s attention to them. Once they noticed the attention, they clarified, “Maker, no. Hardly. Traditional Elven headpieces are very different. The ones I’ve seen are closer to Dragon horns made of gold.”

That got the attention of The Iron Bull, who spoke up with an interested grumble. “Dragon horns? Really? Didn’t think elves went for that kinda thing. They’re more Halla and whatnot, right?”

“The Dalish are, yeah,” Rook replied with a wave of their hand. “I meant the people of Elvhenan. Trust me, those are very dragon-y.”

“Didn’t know you were an expert on Ancient Elven history, Rook,” The Iron Bull noted, his ever-discerning eye appraising them with intrigue. “Where’d you learn all that from?”

“Oh, you know,” Rook remarked with a shrug. “One can learn much from the Fade. Right, Solas?” Their eyes, crinkled around the edges with mirth and mischief, bore into him like a dull yet forceful blade as their golden gaze turned towards him.

Solas subtly stiffened. Was that a hint of smugness he detected in their tone? It couldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have meant anything. In all likelihood, it was an unknowing jab at his expertise, given that he traced all sources of his knowledge back to the Fade.

So why did he suddenly feel so utterly exposed?

He cleared his throat, doing his best to not appear perturbed. “Indeed.”

Soon enough, Vivienne interjected and returned back to the sketch he had drawn up. “Regardless, this design appears simple enough to construct. And it may prevent you from being mistaken for one of the servants. Do you think you can manage it, Jean-Luc?”

“Most certainly, Madame de Fer,” he confirmed. “It will be done, Ser Solas.”

Despite his previous private feeling of eagerness from suggesting a quietly subversive design, Solas found himself at an awkward position. Rook’s pointed comment had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

Before he could reply, a sudden knock at the door called everyone to attention. It was one of the Inquisition’s many messengers.

“Ser Rook?” the runner called out, as they peered into the room. “Apologies for the interruption, messere. There’s a Dalish woman at the gates asking for you.”

Rook’s eyes suddenly lit up, their dismissive and otherwise blasé demeanour changing in an instant. “Ah, great! Thank you for letting me know, I must go now, then. Are we otherwise settled, Madame de Fer?”

“Go ahead, darling,” Vivienne confirmed, waving them off in dismissal. “Go attend whatever duties you need to complete. Do get changed first, won’t you?”

Rook nodded, quickly made use of the private changing area, then fled out through the doors of the war room before he or anyone else could bid them farewell.

Something had clearly lit the fires underneath Rook. He hadn’t ever seen them this determined since their disagreement over the Grey Wardens. Whoever this Dalish woman was, she had be of some great significance to the Qunari.

But why? A Tevinter Qunari and a Dalish Elf? It sounded absurd.

It was something to keep an eye on. Between their apparent knowledge of the ancient elves and this new mysterious visitor, Solas had an uncanny feeling whatever was going on with them would be bigger than it at first appeared.

**

Rook had almost hurled themselves down the steps of Skyhold to get to the gates. They’d been on edge with anticipation ever since Cole confirmed that Merrill would be coming to Skyhold.

Every passing moment where she hadn’t arrived felt like a small agony to endure. It was another moment of wondering if there was more they should be doing, if any of this was going to be fruitful.

But it didn’t matter now. She was here.

Merrill was, like most elves, significantly shorter than Asaaranda. Despite this, Asaaranda still felt as if she towered over them. The way Varric had once described her was larger than life, a force of both gentle wonder and power in equal measure that could be wildly disarming.

She was not like what most people thought of when they considered Blood Mages. That was possibly part of why she seemed so intimidating.

“Thank you for coming all this way,” Asaaranda thanked sincerely. “It means a lot.”

“Oh, it was no trouble,” Merrill insisted with a cheerful shrug. “Truthfully, when I read Hawke’s letter asking for my help, I got a bit worried. Why are the Eluvians of any interest to the Inquisition anyway?”

Asaaranda cleared their throat roughly. “I can explain a bit more once we’re inside,” they reassured. They couldn’t be sure who would overhear out in the open.

Still, determined and only a little hurried, Rook led Merrill through the crowds of the Inquisition, and into the gardens where the Eluvian was tucked away. Once inside, Rook shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that Cole was already in there waiting for them. But, of course, he was there and ready to help.

“Oh, hello,” Merrill greeted. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else.”

“Merrill, this is Cole. He’s a good friend,” Asaaranda introduced. “He’s the one who suggested I contact you.”

Cole gave a polite nod of acknowledgement, murmuring under his breath. “Anxious, on edge. Have to trust this is going to be the right thing. Too much at stake, can’t let anyone else get hurt.”

“Oh! You’re a spirit,” she deduced with a look of intrigue. “I can’t say I’ve heard of a spirit with such a human name before.”

Cole offered a shrug. “It’s my name now. I like it.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Merrill replied. “I really hope I didn’t upset you or anything. I think I’m just a bit out of sorts from the journey here.”

“It’s okay,” he reassured. “I’m not upset. I know I’m not like others you’ve met before.”

“Cole’s a compassion spirit,” Rook informed helpfully. “He’s been a huge help. I wouldn’t have been able to do anything about the Eluvians without him.”

As they spoke, they gestured at the mirror behind them, drawing Merrill’s attention back to it. Her gaze scanned methodically over the mirror in surprise. “This… looks different than the one in Kirkwall. Have you been working at it?”

“Yes,” Asaaranda admitted. “I’ve had limited success on my own so far. It hasn’t released any ill magics or anything, just kinda stubbornly refused to do anything.”

“It’s strange, I… I don’t know how but it feels more alive,” she mused in awe. “It shouldn’t be any different than the one back in Kirkwall. Yet, there’s something…”

She placed her hand against the cool glass of the Eluvian with a frown, feeling the material against her skin and humming gently like that would somehow change what she was sensing.

“I have no idea what’s changed,” Merrill admitted, cautiously. “But something is different about this Eluvian. I can feel it.”

Rook inhaled sharply, trying to hide their excitement and trepidation. “Okay. That’s good, I think. Knowing what’s different is what gets us one step closer to opening it.”

“Just one moment,” Merrill paused, with a frown. “Can you tell me now why the Inquisition wants it open?”

This was the biggest risk for them to possibly take. But they had to be prepared to take it. Someone other than themselves and Cole was going to learn the truth. Someone other than Rook and Cole had to know the truth.

“Okay, so, you remember how you once thought the Eluvians were key to uncovering more of your people’s history?” Rook began, figuring the time for half-truths and lies of omission were over.

Merrill nodded, frowning at them slightly. “Right…?”

“Well, you were right,” Asaaranda told her. “There’s more beyond the Eluvians than I could possibly explain in just a few words, and all of it reveals so much about your people. About history in general.”

Rook watched as Merrill’s expression shifted to one of intrigue and concern in equal measure. “You… what? How do you know this?”

“I’ve been to the place that lies beyond the Eluvians. The Crossroads. And I need to get back. The fate of the entire world depends on it,” Asaaranda admitted. “I know it makes me sound like a madman. But it’s the truth.”

They were more tense than they had been in months, even when facing down the likes of Corypheus and his armies.

Merrill blinked at them in awe and disbelief. “You’ve been into an Eluvian? Really? I… If that’s the case, then why do you need my help?”

“As much as I’ve tried, I can’t get back on my own,” they sighed, mournfully. “I’m not the one who opened the way last time. Anyone else I know who could have done it for me is…” Their throat tightened up, as sudden and unexpected grief gripped them to their core and threatened to tear them apart.

Bellara wasn’t here. She couldn’t be here, things couldn’t be the same - they wouldn’t be. What a strange and unwieldy grief they felt, to mourn someone who wasn’t actually dead. It didn’t make sense. They hadn’t felt this way in weeks. They thought they were ready to accept reality.

“They’re gone,” Asaaranda decided, with a finality that felt like an utter betrayal of the life they’d left behind. “And I’m running out of options to make things right.”

Perhaps their expression or their body language betrayed their despair, because Merrill stepped forward and placed a hand on their arm in an attempt to comfort them.

“Like I said, Hawke’s word means a lot to me. If they trust you, so do I, Rook. I believe you,” she breathed out. “I’m not sure how much I can help. But if you think it’s possible, I’ll try. Do you know how your friend opened the Eluvian last time?”

Solas had used the Lyrium Dagger. Subsequently, Rook had used that on every single Eluvian in the Crossroads themselves. But that was all the way in Kirkwall, in the form of an idol lodged into the body of the highly petrified Meredith Stannard.

There was no damn way they were getting to Kirkwall and back without people noticing. “A lyrium dagger. Some kind of Ancient Elven thing. It was ancient, and there’s no way of getting it back,” Rook sighed.

Merrill’s eyes lit up. “I think I might have something like it. Hold on.”

She rummaged through the contents of her pack, eventually retrieving what seemed to be like any common dagger.

“The Arulin’Holm,” Merrill explained, holding it out for Rook to observe. “It didn’t help much last time. But I thought if you knew  anything that you might be able to make use of it. Maybe it’ll work here?”

It looked exactly like the Lyrium Dagger that Solas had made, right down to the shape of the blade. The only thing that differed was the lack of lyrium itself. If the current form of the artefact didn’t work, surely, they could find some way to get lyrium without much issue.

The Inquisition was full of mages. Nobody would notice the difference.

“It’s uncanny,” Rook remarked in awe. “This is going to be immensely helpful, Merrill. I don’t know if it’ll work the same but… Think you can give it a shot?”

She nodded, approaching the mirror with the Arulin’Holm in hand. Merrill flourished the dagger, as she tugged on the powers beyond the Veil and used it to try to unlock the Eluvian at the behest of her will.

It was then, in a flash of light that filled the entire room from top to bottom, something changed. The Eluvian wobbled, trembled, making an almost rattling sound as it shook against the stone floor.

All three occupants in the room were temporarily blinded. Squinting against the light, Rook tried to discern what was going on, only seeing the outline of a human man.

“Again?” he muttered with great intrigue, then rage, then despair. “Summoned. Again. Stuck with these damned mirrors, damn it all! Must I be forced to endure this endless cycle? Just when I had a good gig going…”

The light slowly seeped away, revealing the figure who had arrived in his entirety. He was a man of average build, with choppy auburn hair, and a fur-covered coat that was clipped together by three O-rings of gradually growing size.

He seemed unremarkable, but given that he had just appeared in a flash of light, one could almost be certain was no regular man. He had to be a demon.

Cole’s eyes went wide in alarm. He gripped Asaaranda’s arm tightly - seemingly stuck between grabbing them and running, or standing in front of them and fighting the spirit that had just appeared.

“The first of the magus cast themselves deep in the Fade in search of answers and power, always power. Forbidden magics, damning, dastardly – exiles even the Evanuris feared,” he whispered in increasing fervour.

‘Exiles even the Evanuris feared?’ What? Asaaranda looked to Cole in concern, only to tense and shiver at the creature’s sudden sinister laughter.

“You… the one they call Rook,” the Demon deduced, eyes noticeably lighting up at this realisation. “Well now, this is a surprise. To be summoned to this place by you of all people.”

“Rook,” Cole hissed in warning. “Be careful. You don’t know what it could ask for. Some things are too precious to give up.”

“Ugh. Compassion,” the Demon uttered with disdain. “Quiet, boy. This doesn’t concern you.”

Cole was momentarily cowed, moving backward, but still stood protectively in front of Merrill who had gone stark white. There was a minute tremble in her shoulders, a tightness to her expression that spoke to her unnerve. “Rook…” she murmured, low and dangerously.

“An Exile even the Evanuris feared? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Asaaranda questioned, determined not to let this spirit intimidate them.

The Demon hummed contemplatively. “It appears my reputation precedes me. But this isn’t the place to discuss such a thing. Come find me in the Emprise du Lion,” he suggested with a sly grin. “It seems there is much we can discuss.”

A moment before he raised his hand to click and would have disappeared in a classic demonic puff of smoke, Rook had the sense to try and get more information from him. “Wait! Who are you?” they called, hurriedly.

The demon gave an almost sinister grin as he tilted his head in a bow-like motion, then simply said, “Call me Imshael.”

And then, he was gone, leaving Cole, Merrill, and Asaaranda standing at the Eluvian in utter disbelief. It remained closed, but that had been more progress than they’d made on their own. Even if it had resulted in the arrival of a demon.

This could only get them closer.

Chapter Text

Rook had made up their mind well before the Inquisitor had even brought up the Emprise du Lion to the rest of the group. They were going there, no matter what. It wasn’t like they had any other plans on how to proceed.

“I don’t see what the problem is, Cole,” Asaaranda insisted, fervently. “I have nothing to lose!”

“Making deals with demons is dangerous, but he isn’t just a demon, he’s worse than that,” Cole protested. “He would hurt you.”

“Better me than anyone else,” they shot back. “This could be my one shot at getting back into the Crossroads. If it takes the intervention of Imshael to help me accomplish that goal, so be it.”

There were worse evils in the world than Imshael. And even if he did hurt them, so what? Nothing he could do would be worse than what had already been done. How much more could Imshael really take from them?

“We can find another way,” Cole pleaded, grabbing them by the arm to stop them in their path. “If I talk to Solas—”

“Solas is the one person who can’t know about this, Cole,” Rook hissed, furiously. “If you ask him, he’ll figure out something’s wrong. I can’t let him get ahead of me, this is the only opportunity to make sure I have the advantage for once.”

His scheming had put them in this situation in the first place. Maybe everything wouldn’t have fallen apart if not for the fact Solas had so much more control than they did, so much more knowledge.

They were counting on the fact that Solas would know nothing about them to make it through this time.

Cole wasn’t the only one to express his disapproval for Rook’s plan. “I understand that this is important, but you don’t know anything about Imshael,” Merrill reminded with an exasperated sigh.

“I know that he’s somehow connected to the Eluvians and that he might be the one way in?” Rook shot back with a shrug. “The Arulin’Holm might not even work properly without his help. Why else would it summon him?”

“There could be any number of reasons,” Merrill sighed exasperatedly. “The Breach, for one thing. I don’t know that we can conclude he’s appeared out of the goodness of his heart.”

“Well, we won’t know until I get to the Emprise,” Asaaranda shrugged. “In the meantime, you’re welcome to take my room. Cole will teach you the guard schedule so you can make it here and back without getting anyone’s attention.”

“Wait, what?” she exclaimed, rather than asked. “Why would…”

The guilty expression on Asaaranda’s face revealed all, making it abundantly clear what they had neglected to inform her of.

“…the rest of the Inquisition doesn’t know I’m here,” Merrill realised suddenly with a deep frown.

Rook winced, shame washing over them all at once. “I… no. Not yet. I mean, Varric probably knows because he’s Varric, but… I wasn’t going to tell anyone else until we got settled in.”

She looked at them, aghast and more than a little put-out. “Nobody knows I’m helping you. That’s why you hurried me in at the gates.”

Asaaranda swallowed harshly around the lump in their throat. “Look, I… the reasons why don’t matter right now. If that puts you off of helping me, that’s fine. I’ll take my chances with Imshael, you can go back home, and just forget you were ever here.”

Merrill shook her head in disbelief, scoffing through a pained smile that almost appeared amused. “Creators, you must be joking. One moment, you tell me that the secrets to my people’s entire history is behind that mirror, take the Arulin’Holm, and the next you’re asking me to walk away?”

“I’m not saying you should go,” Asaaranda clarified with a grimace. “I just… I get that Hawke’s word only goes so far. And I know that this would be weird if I were in your position. There’s just… This is more important than I can put words to. No matter what, I can’t risk giving this up.”

The Dalish woman gave Rook a steely glare, determination pouring through all at once. “I lost my entire Clan because of my work on the Eluvian back in Kirkwall. I know what’s at stake. I’m concerned that you don’t.”

Asaaranda supposed that was fair. Merrill had no reason to trust that Rook was speaking from a place of authority on the matter. “There is nothing Imshael can ask for that I haven’t already lost.”

Merrill sighed frustratedly. “That’s my point. Spirits like him have a way of taking things you didn’t know you could lose. No matter how little you think you have, they always take more than you think possible.”

There had to be nothing else that Rook could lose, they were sure of it. “I get that you’re concerned,” they began, trying to be reassuring. “I appreciate it. But the Crossroads are more important than anything. I don’t care what he asks from me.”

Despite Merrill’s warnings and Cole’s insistence that there could be another way, Asaaranda knew that they had no other options. The time for the ball at Halamshiral was growing ever closer. They had to make into the Crossroads before then.

At any cost.

By the time that Rook and the rest arrived to the Emprise, Asaaranda’s nerves were going absolutely haywire. As determined as they were to make this thing with Imshael work, they weren’t under any illusions that this would be a simple process.

While they’d insisted to both Merrill and Cole that they didn’t care what he asked for, some things had to be off the table. Like possession. Becoming an abomination wouldn’t do the Inquisition any favours, and their forcibly assigned role as Knight of the Maker still made them a figurehead for the organisation.

Corypheus was a small fish compared to the real threat against Thedas, but he certainly was enough of an issue that it meant Rook couldn’t take any chances.

That exclusion still left plenty of unpleasant but ultimately doable options. Murder, blood sacrifice, some combination of the latter, then add in some ritual worship and who knows what else.

They couldn’t be sure what Imshael would want. And that made them more restless than normal, leaving them unable to focus on interacting with the rest of the group.

A fact that didn’t go unnoticed by the others.

The Iron Bull had been eyeing them up the entire journey, even if he was doing a damn good job at pretending he wasn’t. Solas was doing the same thing, only attempting to hide his observations behind other interactions as well. Sabraen kept flashing them concerned looks and mouthed ‘are you okay?’ seemingly every fifteen minutes.

Varric kept appearing like he was waiting for the right opportunity to pull Rook aside and talk. Fortunately for Asaaranda, between the many rifts, the concerns of the people in Sahrnia, and the absolute infestations of Red Templars on their way up the mountains, he hadn’t found that opportunity.

As they moved through the Keep, on a mission that was somewhere between an actual siege and a stealth infiltration, Rook could feel their tension threatening to overwhelm their entire frame.

“Suledin Keep, huh?” The Iron Bull remarked. “Wonder what Corypheus is doing here.”

“Any idea what it was used for historically, Solas?” Sabraen asked. “That might point to a reason why he’s here.”

He shrugged, admitting his understanding with a slight dip of his brow. “I have my guesses. Though I am unfamiliar with the keep’s specific history.”

The Keep itself was undeniably Elven. Behind every corner, another statue of one of the Evanuris seemed to make itself known - including one personally unwanted statue of Fen’Harel that Rook mentally sneered at in passing.

Yet it was also filled to the brim with Red Lyrium growths and infections, not unlike a decent portion of the Emprise itself. The Templars who had taken the keep were also suitably lyrium-laden, though they were hardly the biggest obstacle.

The worst part were the Infected Giants. Giants were already pretty mean and powerful, but with the blighted lyrium, they were also crazed and barely flinched at pain.

Of all places Imshael could have asked for them to meet, it had to be here? He still hadn’t made his presence apparent, which unnerved them in more ways than one.

Eventually, they arrived to the very top of the keep. After dispatching another group of Red Templars, and walking up to the base of the next set of stairs, Rook felt it.

Imshael was there, in that very Courtyard. They didn’t know how they knew it, but they did.

Their nerves had transformed into a deep-seated ache in their gut, and a sense of dizziness that had them swaying on their feet. They needed to get everyone else away. There was no chance in hell that Sabraen would negotiate with a demon, especially not with Varric and The Iron Bull present.

“I… I have a bad feeling about this,” they blurted out suddenly, unable to think of anything else to gain the group’s collective attention. “Something feels wrong. We should go back.”

Varric regarded them with concern. “Rook? What’s going on?”

Asaaranda stepped in front of everyone to continue to try and deter them away. “Please. I just have an awful feeling. We need to go back to camp – now.”

“After all this, you wanna just go back?” The Iron Bull scoffed, frowning. “You gotta be kidding.”

“Inquisitor, please,” they pleaded, turning to appeal to Sabraen. “I really don’t think we should be here. Not like this, there’s… It’s dangerous. More than the quarry, I—”

“Rook, please. Take a breath,” Sabraen interjected, gentle yet firm in tone to try and break through what they must’ve thought was an abrupt and unfounded panic. “What do you think is happening?

Rook swallowed harshly. “Please. I have a bad feeling. Something about how the Fade feels around here is just… off. Let’s just go back, we can return tomorrow morning or something.”

Frowns were exchanged by the others, who all looked unsure of their words, but none more so than Solas who had undoubtedly clued in on just how bad their attempt at a lie was.

“By that time, Corypheus’ forces might move back in,” Sabraen insisted, sympathetic to their worries but unwilling to retreat. “We can’t take that chance and leave the Emprise in their hands.”

“We’ve dispatched dozens of the fuckers in just this afternoon alone,” Rook shot back, subtly raising their voice in a way they hoped would clue Imshael into the goings-on. “I don’t see the issue in turning back to face whatever’s ahead of us with more preparation.”

If Imshael had heard and understood them, he didn’t make it known. The eerie near-silence punctuated by the subtle blustering wind of the mountains and their own laboured breathing hid any audible signs of movement.

Still, something felt off. In the split second before it all went utterly wrong, Rook knew it was coming. Yet, there was nothing they could have done as the rest of the group moved forward up the stairs against their word.

In a flash of light so bright that it blinded them, Sabraen, Varric, Bull, and even Solas were suddenly encased in a blast of magic that left them petrified. Each and every one of them were suddenly frozen in time, leaving behind statues that had once been living people.

When their vision cleared, the sight that made it feel like the floor had fallen out from under their feet. It was like staring their regrets right in the face all over again, like they’d never even left the Black City.

“Varric!” Asaaranda shrieked in horror. They began to rapidly pound against the frozen visage in an attempt to break through or produce any kind of effect that let them know he hadn’t been harmed. Alas, their efforts proved futile, only leaving behind bruises on their knuckles.

Their attentions were promptly whisked away when a deep and familiar amused chuckle sounded from behind them.

“With all of your delaying, I had almost thought you had changed your mind about meeting me,” Imshael greeted, with an impressed nod. “Wise of you not to come alone. The Red Templars and infected giants are quite troublesome. I would have hated to have sees you smashed into red paste before we had a chance to talk.”

“What have you done to them?” Asaaranda hissed lowly. “If you’ve hurt them—”

“They are in a simple stasis,” he assured with a wave of his hand. “In fact, I am protecting them from harm. This way none of my yet living Templars get any ideas about interrupting us.”

Their shoulders practically shot upwards to their ears at that response. “I’m sorry, your Templars?”

“Ones that have been entrusted to me in service of Corypheus’ efforts with Red Lyrium, yes,” Imshael confirmed, doing everything but dissuading Rook’s ever-growing fears. “I assure you, however, I had no intention to lead you here just to kill you. I really do wish to discuss more about the opportunities that lay before us.”

It would have been far easier to kill them when Asaaranda had accidentally first summoned him, that much was true. But hearing that he was working with Corypheus set their nerves alight.

They were alone in the lion’s den, armed only with their word and desperation to make this work. If they turned back now, they would become easy pray. They had to persevere.

“Very well,” Rook said, clearing their throat to try and settle their frazzled disposition. “Let’s get this done, then. You asked me to meet. Why?”

“You seek the key to the Eluvians, yes?” Imshael hummed. “I can give you that key.”

It couldn’t be that simple. Things were never ever that simple, much less with spirits like Imshael. Asaaranda cocked their eyebrow and crossed their arms defensively. “I’m not gonna just assume you’re offering out of the kindness of your heart,” they scoffed. “What do you want out of this?”

Imshael chuckled crudely. “So quick to assume that giving you what you want is not its own reward, dear Rook. You’re cautious, slow to trust. Understandably so… but I digress. What I want is simple. I offer a choice.”

“A choice?” Rook asked, frowning. “What choice?”

The demon smiled plainly. “The choice is simple: we help each other or we do not. The first option… I leave behind my brief alliance with Corypheus and give you the means to access the Eluvian network, in exchange for one small favour.”

He began to stroll along the edges of the courtyard as he explained, “There is an artefact, not unlike the one your Dalish companion used to summon me at the Eluvian. It has been lost for many an age. Yet now I hear it has been found, in the form of an Idol.”

Damn it, of course. It had to be the one thing other than possession that Rook couldn’t give. The Lyrium Dagger.

“I know what you seek,” they surmised with a grimace. “But that’s out of my capacity to retrieve, even with the resources of the Inquisition.”

Imshael appeared unimpressed, as his lips curled downwards and his brow furrowed. “Indeed? How utterly disappointing. An organisation such as the Inquisition cannot even procure a simple elven dagger?”

“That dagger is anything but simple, you and I both know it, Imshael,” Asaaranda huffed. “I won’t be played for a fool here. You ask for something that could shatter the heavens, or create another Breach. I don’t have any proof that you will truly offer a key to the Eluvians.”

The demon threw up his hands defensively, scoffing in disdain. “The fact that you and your companions summoned me through one wasn’t a clue? What reason do I have to lie to you?”

“To get to the dagger, perhaps,” Asaaranda rebutted in disbelief. “Why else would you ask me of all people to retrieve it for you?

“I couldn’t possibly presume you knew anything about it. Until you revealed otherwise just now,” Imshael noted with a smug grin. “Truthfully, I was under the assumption that you would merely call upon the Inquisition’s resources to play fetch. But to hear you know of it… that intrigues me greatly, Rook.”

Rook’s heart dropped into their stomach. They’d said too much. Again. Damn it all, why couldn’t they keep their damn mouth shut?

“You asked why I would seek the dagger from you of all people,” he continued, seeming to luxuriate in the sudden despair present in Rook’s expression. “You assume I knew anything about you. Rook, Knight of the Maker you may be, that title tells me less than nothing about you.”

In the blink of an eye, Imshael had appeared suddenly at their side. “So tell me, Rook. Who are you really? And why is it that you seek the Eluvians?”

Asaaranda flinched backwards, feeling more and more like they had lost control of the situation by the second. “Am I to assume if I don’t tell you, you’ll make my choice for me?”

“How shrewd,” Imshael all but confirmed. “I will indeed take your refusal as your choice.”

Rook steeled themselves, determined to not let Imshael get the upper hand. “I am the only one who knows the true threat that Thedas faces, that all of existence faces. I seek to reclaim my hold over the Lighthouse in my fight against the Dread Wolf who would see this world sundered.”

Imshael erupted in guffawing laughter that echoed like a war drum, doubling over with his hands on his knees in utter disbelief and mirth. “The Dread Wolf? The Dread Wolf. Ha! Whatever you think this Dread Wolf is, he’s no threat.”

“I beg to differ,” Rook insisted with a scowl. “He’s the one who gave Corypheus the means to create the Breach. It’s his fault that I am even here at all, and he is also the only damn reason I’m even entertaining the idea of asking you for help.”

They glared at him, even as the amusement on his face made way for something far more dangerous – intrigue. He turned sharply on his heel towards them. “I am not the sort of spirit who changes his mind often,” Imshael admitted, chuckling sinisterly. “Yet… I believe there is more value in offering you a new choice.”

Rook narrowed their eyes at him in suspicion. “Hit me.”

“Your choice is this: either we end this exchange in battle, acting as if we were destined to be enemies all along,” Imshael began, shrugging nonchalantly as if to signify he knew Rook wouldn’t take that option.

“Or?” they asked, scowling.

He grinned and muttered promisingly, “Or… I give you the key to the Eluvian network, and you allow me to join you in your fight against the Dread Wolf, in lieu of our previous deal.”

Asaaranda’s blood went icy cold in an instant. The one thing they hadn’t expected to hear from him… was that.

Allow a Desire demon to join their fight against Solas... It was a ridiculous notion. Even if they had worked with Spirits before. Imshael wasn’t Cole, or Manfred, or even Spite: Imshael was an unknown.

He was a far more powerful entity than any of them with unknown motivations, but the only one who had the means to get Rook access to the Eluvians before the ball at Halamshiral.

They had to take it. The dagger would be too precious to give up, and they needed to get to the Lighthouse before the Inquisition would ever even learn of the Crossroads’ existence.

“Then so be it,” Asaaranda decided, with a finality akin to a funeral march. “I accept your offer, Imshael.”

As soon as the words had left their lips, Imshael had opened his hand to reveal a smooth diamond-shaped stone that glowed faintly under the sunlight.

“This will open your way,” he promised, as sincerely as he could muster with an expression prone to smugness. “When the time is right, I’ll meet you in the Crossroads.”

His gaze softened, alarmingly gentle for a man who utterly oozed cockiness. In a low, dangerous whisper, he sang before he went, “I do so look forward to our partnership, Rook.”

Imshael clicked his fingers, and suddenly the magic once petrifying the Inquisitor, Varric, Solas, and Bull had vanished.

The spirit too had gone, leaving Asaaranda standing alone in the centre of the courtyard, the incriminating stone in their hand. Their knees buckled under their weight, and they collapsed to the cobbled floor unceremoniously, as the tension began to seep from their body.

“Rook!” Varric called out, as he shook free of his paralysis.

Frantically, yet as subtly as they could muster, they placed it underneath the wound fabric of their breastband to keep it hidden against their chest.

“What happened? Are you alright?” Sabraen asked, frantic and concerned in equal measure. They knelt down beside them, rapidly inspecting them for injuries or any other signs of harm.

With the keystone tucked closely underneath their shirt, Asaaranda did everything they could to avoid meeting Varric’s gaze. “I’m fine,” Rook muttered, eyes fixed firmly on the ground.  “Whatever that was… it’s gone now.”

For the others, their change in disposition must have seemed jarring, but Rook was too exhausted from the encounter to care.

They had seemingly gotten the key. Now, it was just a matter of keeping it hidden until they made it back to Skyhold.

**

Needless to say, Cole was utterly horrified by the decision Rook had made. Not only making a deal with Imshael, but allying with him – that had been a step too far for comfort.

As regrettable as it had been to cause mistrust between one of their only friends in the Inquisition, Rook was finding it hard to regret making the choice itself.

It had got them the keystone for the Eluvians, after all. With no other options, they had to believe that the ends justified the means, just this once.

“This is it?” Merrill asked, squinting at them in suspicion. “This is all you got from Imshael? It doesn’t look very impressive.”

“It looks like it might work with the Arulin’Holm,” they suggested, pointing out the groove in the hilt of the tool. “Why else would this be what he gave me after we settled our deal?”

“Could’ve been a lie,” she rebutted, nonetheless taking the stone in hand to try and fit it against the Arulin’Holm. “I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that demons can do that.”

“If he lied about it, I’ll hunt him down and kill him myself,” Asaaranda shrugged, as they stood back to allow her to work. “But I don’t think he would have asked for what he did if he was going to lie about the key.”

Merrill paused in her efforts, as she turned over her shoulder to glance at them in concern.  “…what did he ask for?”

Asaaranda hesitated, unsure of whether to be honest. Given how far they had come with her help, she was owed some honesty but the truth was far worse than their lies of omission. Rook hadn’t told her about Solas yet, let alone the fact that the Evanuris were real and far worse than history remembered them.

“It doesn’t matter,” they settled on, feeling guilt bubble up in their gut dangerously. “We just need to get this damned thing open, and then I’ll see if I need to get a return deal on that keystone.”

Her concern didn’t waiver, even as they attempted to brush the concern aside with a smile and a reassuring nod. Merrill reluctantly turned her focus to the hilt in her hand.

The Arulin’Holm itself was made from ironbark, delicately crafted and carved by elves who had studied under June from the days of Elvhenan. The larger ring at the base of the hilt was inscribed with hundreds of tiny grooves, their actual structure and meaning indiscernible to the naked eye.

At the thickest part of the hilt was a larger rounded groove that seemed like it would perfectly fit the keystone. It was uncanny, eerie even. Like it was made to fit.

It should have felt perfect. Instead, Merrill could not help her unnerve. Even though she had come all this way, solely for the purpose of helping Rook with the Eluvian… her tension was palpable.

Rook seemed so sure of themselves, and just as sure of Merrill’s own ability to do this right. What could she have possibly done to earn such regard from them?

Perhaps it was the nerves, the grief, or some combination of the two that made her hands shake as she pressed the keystone into the Arulin’Holm. Unsteadily, she exhaled and turned towards the mirror.

With a brandish of the blade, she called upon the Fade to shape reality to her will. The pathway would open. It had to, or else what was this all for?

All at once, both the Arulin’Holm and the keystone lit up in a brilliant blue light, that seemed to cut through the glass of the Eluvian itself to become a viscous fluid. Both Asaaranda and Merrill went silent, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, regarding the artefact with great awe.

Rook couldn’t believe it. They had finally opened the way, after so many months of wondering if they had lost once and for all. It hadn’t been for nothing. The Crossroads were open once more.

The path back to the Lighthouse was before them. It wasn’t like it was a sure victory, at least not yet. Nonetheless, Asaaranda couldn’t help but feel giddy.

They were almost home. 

Merrill, meanwhile, was still staring in disbelief. Eyes-watering, with the Arulin’Holm gripped tightly in her fist, she remarked, “It… it changed. Did we really…?”

“It’s open,” Asaaranda confirmed, breathily and eagerly. “Maker’s absolute ass, Merrill, you did it! You really opened it!”

“Creators, it… look at all of the colours,” she muttered, allowing her hands to fall by her side. “I’ve never seen any magic that looks like this in my entire life!”

“Just wait until you see inside,” Asaaranda chuckled fondly. “It’s a whole other experience.”

Merrill shook her head in disbelief, an uncomfortable giggle echoing in response. “I still can’t believe it. Are we certain it’s not just some trick?”

They met her eye, shrugged and said, “Only one way to find out.” Without another moment of hesitation, Rook surged through the doorway, disappearing behind the swirl of colours entirely.

When they emerged on the other side, it was not exactly the homecoming that they had been expecting.

They knew that the Crossroads varied in appearance, but they hadn’t really been expecting just how different these were from the ones that led to the Lighthouse.

Hundreds, if not thousands of mirrors were lined up beside each other in an endless cobblestone-lined grid that disappeared over the horizon. Structures of various heights, statues and effigies of figures that Rook recognised to undoubtedly be the Evanuris were scattered around as far as the eye could see.

Admittedly, one could not see very far at all – given that the entire realm seemed to be laden in a thick fog. What little light existed within the realm was a dull faint blue, distinctly cold and unwelcoming.

It was imprecise to call the realm dead, for even the halls of the Grand Necropolis in Nevarra were more lively than this place was.

The only way Rook could think to describe it, no matter how horrific the comparison, was akin to Tranquillity. A void of emotion, instead leaving emptiness that lived and breathed without meaning, like it had forgotten how to feel alive.

“Maker…” Asaaranda breathed out. They had to track down the Lighthouse somehow, in all of this. They could spend years wandering through this place and never come close to their true destination.

Nothing looked even vaguely familiar. There were no hints about how to get somewhere that they understood, nothing that even hinted to the Lighthouse’s direction. They should have expected that this wouldn’t be as simple as waltzing through the front door.

Damn it. They had come so far. This couldn’t be it.

Before they could fall into another spiral, the Eluvian behind them crackled with the telltale signs of someone else’s arrival. Merrill had finally made her way through with the Arulin’Holm in hand.

“It’s… incredible,” she gasped lightly, her free hand pressing against her chest in awe. “There must be thousands of Eluvians in here. How can there possibly be that many?”

Asaaranda shrugged, half-grimacing at the looming doom they felt and half-smiling at Merrill’s excitement. “The Ancient Elves scattered them all over Thedas. Makes sense they would have the means to even go beyond that.”

The idea that some of these Eluvians could lead into the Fade itself was both intriguing and terrifying. As for what lied beyond, there were too many implications to even begin to interrogate there.

“Can you tell which ones work and which don’t?” Merrill wondered aloud. “They can’t all be functional, after all.”

Asaaranda shook their head, sighing. “I had help with that last time. A spirit who knew the way better than anyone. But I don’t know if they’re still here. Everything feels… emptier than it’s supposed to be.”

The Caretaker, if they were still here, was nowhere in sight. Not to mention, Rook wasn’t even sure if they would respond to such a title – given that ‘Caretaker’ had been a nickname granted by the Veilguard after Bellara had translated notes written in Elvhen into trade.

Had ten years of activity really made that much of a difference to this place? As far as they knew, the Crossroads weren’t exactly like the Fade, where the realm was malleable and subject to the wills of the powerful.

However it worked around here, they both appeared to be utterly alone in this unmistakeably dilapidated and otherwise forgotten realm. At least, for a brief moment.

Over the horizon, something began to shift through the fog. Slowly, but steadily, it approached them until the figure became clear.

The figure was too tall to be Imshael, too humanoid to be the Caretaker, and too obscured by the dim light of this world for Rook to begin to discern who or what it was at a distance.

“Well, well… what have we here? A Qunari come to find their way into this place between places, escorted by one of the people…” the figure – a nigh unknowable woman – uttered in a sultry tone that sent shivers down Asaaranda’s spine. “For a while, these roads laid here in obscurity to turn to rot. Now everyone from here to Orlais is vying for a taste of its many delights.”

Though she appeared to have merely muttered her observations, the sound was more akin to that of a cannon in the way her words echoed around the space. Her voice was unfamiliar to them, even more so than the woman herself.  

Merrill, however, had gone a stark white – the last of the colour in her cheeks beginning to drain.

Unlike Rook, she understood exactly who had approached.

Chapter Text

The legends did not give true credence to the magnificence and swagger that this woman carried in her stride. There was an air of authority to her that roared for obedience, a compulsion that insisted all who stood in her presence to hang onto her every word.

Her long silvery hair elegantly fell down the expanse of her back, save for the four parts that had been tightly bound with red strings into horn-like shapes on either side of her head. Her outfit was both elegant and striking – with a dark burgundy studded leather bodice, accented with pauldrons crafted from dozens of ravens’ feathers.

Every inch of her was decorated, from her armoured braces and boots, to the delicate iron earrings and many leather belts that she wore. Yet the undeniably most eye-catching thing was her headpiece.

Akin to a diadem, the bronze metal curved elegantly along the points of her cheekbones, up above her brow and down the bridge of her nose into three distinct razor shape points. It framed her already soul-piercing eyes, which were a golden yellow as blinding as the sun itself.

Though her name did not leap forward to the forefront of Rook’s mind, it was still apparent that whoever she was, she demanded to be beheld and looked upon with respect.

“Asha’bellanar,” Merrill remarked with a low whisper. Her eyes fell to the ground and she bowed her head low. “Andaran atish’an.”

“Aneth ara, da’len,” the woman replied with a gentle smirk. “It has been some time. I see you’ve made new friends since last we met.”

“Wait… ‘Asha’bellanar?’ You’re Morrigan’s mother. The Witch of the Wilds,” Asaaranda breathed out in sheer disbelief. Flemeth. The subject of more legends and folklore than one could count.

In some, she was a poor apostate led astray by her love for a poet. In others, she was a monstrous abomination who hunted within the Korcari Wilds to steal men with her wiles and build an army of daughters.

Even in Ventus, where Rook had grown up, children of all classes were treated to the most bizarre of stories about the witch of the wilds, as a kind of cultural bogeyman to command obedience to their parents – or indeed, their masters.

The truth likely hid itself between the wildest of tales, though they didn’t know for sure what the truth was. What they did know was that Mythal’s arrival here could not be a coincidence.

Rook had forgotten that in the time of the Inquisition, Morrigan had not yet become the host of the goddess’ fragment. After all, Solas had not yet killed Flemeth, thus the fragment had no need to change hosts.

This presented a bigger opportunity than they could possibly fathom. Without Flemeth’s power, Solas would remain weakened from his time in Uthenera. He was vulnerable, and thus… He could be beaten.  

“Some call me that title, yes,” Flemeth agreed, her eyes seeming to sparkle with amusement. “That said, ‘mother’ is not usually the one I’m recognised for before ‘witch.’ I take it you’ve met my daughter, then?”

Asaaranda swallowed harshly. “In a manner of speaking.”

They couldn’t shrink before her. They needed to be strong, stand up for themselves. If they were going to get to her on their side or provide any kind of assistance in getting to the Lighthouse, they needed Flemeth to respect them.

Nonetheless, Asaaranda found themselves deeply nervous. Something about this woman was far more terrifying than the Mythal-fragment that had they met in the Crossroads in their own time.

“Tell me, then. I’ve not meet a great deal of my Morrigan’s friends. Who are you, child?” she questioned. “What business brings you to this place?”

“My name is Rook,” they replied, head bowed down in respect.

Flemeth’s amusement seemed to only grow. Her eyes glimmered in the low light, dangerously and akin to a predator.

“Rook… Yes, I recall now. The spirits talk, you see. Some say you are Maker-sent,” she hummed with intrigue. “Though, why He would send you here is beside me.”

“I am not sent by any god, let alone the Maker,” Rook denied, immediately. Then, after a moment of brief panic to wonder what the hell Flemeth had heard, steeled themselves to ask, “…what is it exactly that the spirits say about me?”

“Mere whispers,” she reassured, dismissively waving their concerns away. “Questions, mostly. Not every day someone walks physically in the Fade, after all. Let all alone a Qunari and an Elf. Speaking of…If it is not the Maker who sends you here, am I to presume it is your Inquisition who sent you here?” Flemeth questioned with a raise of her brow.

“No,” Rook replied, firmly. “Not sent by the Inquisition either.”

Silently, behind them, Merrill frowned. That didn’t make any sense. Why would they both be here if not for the Inquisition? Sure, Rook apparently hadn’t told anyone other than Cole she was here but she had assumed they at least knew about the Eluvians…

Blind to Merril’s growing discomfort and realisations, Asaaranda surged forward and said, “Forgive me if this is presumptuous, but we could use your help.”

Flemeth gave an amused, almost purr-like cackle in response, her eyes narrowing like a predator’s about to attack. “I would imagine so, given the place you have found yourselves in. Ask, then.”

There was something distinctly dragon-like about Flemeth in that moment. The raw power, the ease with which she appraised her prey, and the gentle yet deafening rumble in her chest that preluded a mighty roar.

Her eyes, unnaturally golden, fixated on Rook. Even with the added boost of armoured heels and the height of her hair, Flemeth still did not reach Asaaranda’s height. Yet the effect she gave was that of a looming, large beast with every physical advantage and much higher knowledge.

It was like staring down the dragon that had destroyed Minrathous, knowing exactly what it was capable of.

With the overwhelming feeling that they couldn’t afford to show her even a moment of hesitation, Rook met her eye and requested coolly, “We seek the Vi’Revas. Can you show us the way?”

Flemeth erupted into a bellowing fit of laughter that seemed to ring around the Crossroads. In that laughter was the dragon’s roar, both playful and warning in the same breath, that warned lesser predators of the risk of biting off more than they could chew.

Rook had her attention, now they needed to get her on the same page without coming off overzealous. After all, High Dragons tolerated the drakes when they were useful, but would do away with those who proved to be more trouble than they were worth.

“Dare I ask how you came to learn of such a place?” she guffawed, as her hands naturally fell to her hips.

“The same way I learnt about the Crossroads to begin with,” they said, offering little more explanation than that. It would be senseless to flaunt their knowledge here. “It doesn’t matter. Do you know the way to the Lighthouse?”

Flemeth scoffed, acting faux-insulted by the insinuation that she would not know something so simple. “I do indeed. What was that you called it? ‘The Lighthouse?’ Fitting, I suppose. The path of freedom. Once it guided the people to places beyond the reach of those who would bind them. Yet… every path has a price.”

“Whatever price you ask, I’ll pay it,” Asaaranda vowed with a conviction to rival even Mythal herself. “I have come too far and lost too much to turn back now.”

“So quick to offer anything,” Flemeth hummed judgementally. “Do you know what it is you truly seek? How many have lived and died trying to achieve the same goal?”

“I know that the lives of thousands more depend on me achieving that goal,” Rook shot back, unflinchingly. “And I know that I will do everything in my power to get back to the Lighthouse, to get the justice owed to each and every damn one of them.”

“Curious,” Flemeth decided after a moment of contemplation. “Justice is what leads you here? Not the impending battle against Corypheus.”

“Corypheus is but a symptom of a larger issue,” Rook clarified. “There will only be more like him, so long as the real sickness persists.” Their eyes flickered over to the dagger in Merrill’s hands, pointedly. “And I intend to cut it out at the source.”

Flemeth’s eyes followed theirs to the weapon, resulting in a glimpse of what seemed to be surprise to appear across her features. “An Arulin’Holm? By what means did you acquire such a thing?”

It was then that Merrill spoke up, clearing her throat. “It has been in the possession of Clan Sabrae for generations, Asha’bellanar,” she explained with a polite yet determined expression. “I had thought it would open the Eluvians, but on its own...”

“You are correct, of course,” Flemeth stated simply, interjecting coolly. “Once, it would have been used for that very purpose. But it is incomplete - unable to open much more than a letter now, even with that keystone you’ve added there.”

Asaaranda frowned. They had thought the similarities between the Arulin’Holm and Solas’ lyrium dagger were a coincidence. Yet Flemeth’s word seemed to prove otherwise.

Damn it all.

 “…It needs lyrium, doesn’t it?” they concluded with a sigh. “That’s why it is incomplete.”

Flemeth gave a low chuckle of approval. “You are surprisingly well-informed, Rook. And yet… exactly how you have acquired such knowledge eludes even me.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll accept the answer ‘I saw it in the Fade?’” Asaaranda quipped, somewhat sheepishly.

If Flemeth got the joke, she didn’t make it known. She merely shrugged. “Somehow I doubt that. But no matter. There is a way we can work towards a mutual goal, while satisfying both our own interests.”

This was it. They’d got her. Rook went silent to allow Flemeth the space to speak.

“I will give you the means to find the path to the Vi’Revas, and assist you in the final forging of the Arulin’Holm,” Flemeth proposed coolly. “In exchange, you need only perform a few simple tasks, trade some information.”

Tit for tat, they supposed. Equivalent exchange, and whatnot. No matter how much it made their gut sink to have to make another deal with yet another highly powerful entity like Mythal, they really had no other option.

Sink or swim, do or don’t, live or dive – it was as they said. They had come too far and lost too much to give up now.

After a calming breath, Rook faced the downright draconic woman before them with every ounce of conviction they could muster and said, “Name your price.”

**

Asaaranda had known that involving themselves with Mythal would bring even more complications into the mix, but they hadn’t quite anticipated exactly which complications.

Their pre-existing concerns were to do with the dagger – both the one that they possessed and the one currently stuck within Meredith Stannard in Kirkwall.

Regarding the current form of the one in their possession, a few things were of note. It could do most of the same things as Solas’ original, including affecting the fabric of the Veil like how the Inquisitor’s mark did and open any undamaged Eluvians on either side.

Flemeth explained that it could not, however, open the door to the Lighthouse from within the Crossroads themselves. At least, not as it currently was. Aside from the fact that the Lighthouse had been specifically designed to be inaccessible by the same means as the rest of the network, their dagger itself was still incomplete.

It was missing a power source, a source of raw magic that was capable of shaking the earth and heavens alike. Which of course meant Lyrium.

Raw lyrium, not like the bottled and diluted liquid varieties that the Inquisition had, the kind of stuff that was volatile and dangerous for even the most skilled dwarven miners to handle.

The very blood of the earth itself. The blood of the Tranquil Titans, the forefathers of Dwarven-kind sundered by the Ancient Elves themselves.

It was hard not to treat the notion of taking more from their kind as despicable, knowing the pain that each Titan carried even after all these years. The Harding from Asaaranda’s time had shared that pain with them; all of the rage, the vengefulness, the despair, the hatred, the grief.

Despite their understanding of that pain, Rook had little choice.

It wasn’t as though the Dwarves didn’t take advantage of lyrium themselves, either. Orzammar’s entire economy relied on it. Entire families from the Mining Caste depended on it for their livelihood and legacy. The Shaperate wrote and rewrote their entire histories in lyrium.

Generations upon generations of dwarves had taken the blood of their ancestors to serve their own ends. To sell it to the highest bidder. To take what was true and make it fit the agenda of whoever was on the throne at the time.

Here, it would serve as the agent of vengeance against the one who had made the titan’s tranquil. At least in this way, no matter how much it disgusted them to think so, at least Rook would be able to carry it forth in the name of justice.

They had planned to simply reappropriate some supplies from the Inquisition’s stocks to avoid drawing attention to themselves, but alas… nothing could ever be that simple.

The Inquisition’s following War Table meeting proved that swiftly enough.

“Our lyrium supplies are dwindling by the day,” Cullen reported, grimly. “We have done our best to supply our mages and few templars with what we can spare, but I fear that without new shipments from Orzammar, we will be in dire straits for the upcoming siege on Adamant Fortress.”

Josephine shook her head. “Unfortunately, I don’t expect we will have supplies arriving any time soon. They’ve been struck by Earthquakes, compromising several major lyrium mines and opening up Darkspawn tunnels connecting the kingdom to the rest of the Deep Roads,” she explained.

“I don’t suppose the Chantry will be an option for us to supplement our stocks temporarily?” Sabraen asked with a frown.

“Unlikely, Inquisitor,” Leliana replied, apologetically. “When the Templar Order left the Chantry, lyrium stocks were often raided to depletion. Anything the scattered Clerics would have left now is unlikely to be spared.”

“Buying lyrium second-hand from the Dwarven Carta or even the Imperium could be an option, but it will be costly,” Josephine pointed out. “They will be as affected by the shortages as we are, and are likely to charge much higher prices than usual.”

“King Bhelen sent a missive this past week, requesting that the Inquisition sent aid to deal with the Darkspawn incursion,” the Ambassador continued. “With the Grey Wardens’ absence, few other powers are willing to assist. We may be all Orzammar has left.”

Sabraen paused, quietly looking over in contemplation as their eyes methodically scanned the missive and reports atop the war table. Cullen took the silence as an opportunity to interject reassuringly. “Given the risk of directly intervening and the importance of your health for the siege, if you would rather we reach out to other sources in the meantime, we would understand, Inquisitor.”

Well, shit. Slipping a few bits out of the Inquisition’s supply was looking less and less likely. Kal-Sharok weren’t likely to be cooperative, no matter how relatively friendly they had been to the Harding of their own time.

Orzammar would be their only option.

“We can’t just let Orzammar be overrun by Darkspawn,” Asaaranda interjected with a frown. “If the situation is bad enough that they’ve called for foreign aid, we could be dealing with the beginnings of a Blight or something.”

They really hoped not, though they could hardly think it was impossible. Whatever else was going on… Rook couldn’t be sure. Their Varric had kept details about the Inquisition’s time in Orzammar to himself, offering little explanation other than ‘they’re the Deep Roads, kid, what do you expect?’

“Given the location of the outbreaks, it may be prudent to build a lift down into the Storm Coast fissure, away from the main parts of the city,” Leliana proposed. “We will have people to spare, even with the preparations for both Halamshiral and Adamant.”

“It’s your call, Inquisitor,” Cullen said simply. “What do you wish us to do?”

Rook subtly turned their gaze to Sabraen’s, silent and pleading and desperate, like an innocent man about to be hanged. This couldn’t be delayed.

Last time around, the Inquisition had gone to Orzammar months after dealing with Corypheus. Given that there were no other means to covertly retrieve lyrium for their new dagger as Flemeth had requested, they couldn’t afford to wait that long.

They had to get to Orzammar in order to complete their dagger. That would no doubt come after the Winter Palace, which undoubtedly meant they were staying with the Inquisition a little while longer.

That wasn’t even considering what else Flemeth had asked for. Not that that mattered here. Not that anyone else in this room knew what was coming yet.

All that mattered was making sure to press Orzammar’s importance upon the Inquisitor.

After a heart-stopping moment of hesitation, Sabraen nodded and said, “If we’ve got the men to spare, send them. Dealing with a Blight on top of Corypheus could get complicated with the Wardens deposed, and that’s not even mentioning the cost of losing lyrium now. We should see what we can accomplish, get in contact with their people.”

“As you say, Inquisitor,” Leliana confirmed. And just like that… it was settled.

After months of feeling like they were powerless to do anything, Rook couldn’t really believe just how quickly things seemed to be coming together.

They had the Eluvian network, the beginnings of a lyrium dagger, and soon the Lighthouse. It wouldn’t be exactly like it was, nor could it be. But perhaps that was for the better. They could fix the mistakes they made the first time, circumvent the ones made by their enemies entirely.

Asaaranda just needed to stick it out. First, the ball at the Winter Palace, then to Orzammar for the lyrium, and then… everything that came after that.

In the interim, they supposed they needed to find allies. People that Solas would be unfamiliar with, since that was Varric’s original goal in seeking them out in the first place. They already had Merrill, Cole, and Imshael – an elven expert and spirits who wanted to help for their own varying reasons. It was a good start, but they needed to find more.

There was a lot to consider. But it didn’t need to be done all at once.

Once they went to the Winter Palace, they weren’t likely to have another moment to themselves for a while. With that in mind, Asaaranda took themselves up to the only quiet corner of Skyhold, behind the newly constructed mage tower, once the War Meeting was over.

The view from the top was the expanse of mountains that were utterly covered in snow. It was somewhat of a novelty for them, being from a region of Tevinter that never saw even a hint of frost in the colder seasons. Despite the many months they had spent in both Haven and Skyhold, they never got used to the sight of it.

It was so beautiful, for something otherwise devoid of colour. The chill of the gathered piles on the parapets pressed against their heated skin was a temporary relief, a sensation that brought them back to their body instead of leaving them aflutter in the Fade.

Once they had managed to banish their looming panic, a memory of simpler times came to them unbidden. The mountaintop outpost of Isana Negat, where Rook and Harding had gone together after dealing with the angered shade of the Titan.

When they looked hard enough, they had seen the shapes of the Titans who had fallen in the mountains back then. They supposed even now, even here, the scarred remnants of a war from many a millennia ago still left its impact upon the Earth.

It had seemed easier to face that knowledge when Lace was at Asaaranda’s side, even if in reality it wasn’t. It seemed apparent to Rook that was the burden of hindsight, or rather in their case, foresight.

Their unwavering brooding meant that they hadn’t noticed the approaching presence to their left, the one who they’d semi-intentionally been avoiding for any meaningful kind of conversation.

“Hey, Rook,” Varric called out, his voice cutting through the roar of the winds. “Mind if we catch up? Kinda feel like it’s been a bit since we’ve seen each other.”

They’d seen each other in the Emprise, every single day for about two weeks. It hadn’t been that long at all. They both knew that. But it would serve neither of them to get defensive, or point out the obvious truth.

Instead, Asaaranda merely offered a tepid smile and nod. “Sure thing, Varric. What’s up?”

He sidled over to them, casually despite the obvious tension he carried in his shoulders. “Oh, not much. Just taking a break, figured I’d come talk to you… you know, since you’ve neglected to come talk to me about why you’re sneaking an old friend of mine around Skyhold.”

Asaaranda sighed wearily. They had expected he would find out. “…I’m guessing Hawke told you?”

“The kid told me, actually,” Varric clarified with a shake of his head. “Though Pen did mention you asked them to send a letter. Not sure how you expected to get that one past me, Rook.”

With a soft chuckle, Asaaranda nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, guess you caught me. Merril’s here.”

“So, are you gonna tell me why?” he questioned impatiently. “Or am I to assume this is yet another thing you don’t want me to find out?”

“You know me, Varric,” Rook shrugged haphazardly. “I have a lot of secrets and never explain any of my reasons for doing anything.”

Definitely not any time soon, at least. He sighed dejectedly, undoubtedly disappointed with their lacklustre response. “Guess I walked right into that one.”

For a brief moment, Asaaranda had thought he’d given up, from the way he’d gone utterly still and silent beside them.

“You know, I tried looking into Qunari named ‘Asaaranda’ from Minrathous matching your description,” Varric announced nonchalantly. “Couldn’t find a damn thing. And for a city that size, that’s unusual. Thought I would’ve at least run into a couple leads, even if they ended up being entirely different people.”

Rook’s blood went icy cold, the chill from the mountain air now biting instead of pleasant. They’d forgotten they’d told him their name. “…you looked into me?”

“Not like you’ve left me with a lot of other options, Rook,” he replied with a regretful expression. “Cole told me about what happened between you and that desire demon, Imshael. Between that, involving Daisy in this and the Eluvian, and all the sneaking around you’re doing, I’m left with alarm bells ringing for the worst case scenario here.”

The worst part was that his words weren’t accusatory. His tone was more mournful than anything else. Like he couldn’t believe that it had come to this. Yet, despite the way his words were directed towards Rook, his eyes were looking right through them.

Like it wasn’t even Asaaranda that Varric was pleading with in that moment.

“Varric, please, I… I can explain some other time, I swear,” they insisted softly, feeling guilt rush over them like a tidal wave. “I just need—there’s too much at stake for me to risk this now.”

Maker, the expression he returned was heartbreaking. There was no way to make him understand without explaining everything, but they just couldn’t bring themselves to do so.

The very thought made the image of their own Varric, slumped over with the lyrium dagger in his chest, appear before their very eyes. To tell him would be inviting the mistakes of the past— present – future to come again and all but pre-emptively light his pyre.

It seemed then that neither of them were really looking at each other as they spoke. Too many ghosts haunted them both, after all.

“I wanna believe you, kid, I just…” Varric trailed off with a frustrated sigh. “How am I supposed to just take you at your word for this? How many more times can I be expected to walk away after hearing ‘not now, but later?’”

“Once this works out, you won’t have to, I swear,” Asaaranda promised, with every fibre of their being. “There are things I need to do first. Please.”

Varric’s expression went stone cold and unreadable, as he offered no words in reply, leaving nothing but the roar of the wind and the howl of the blood in Rook’s ears to fill the devastating silence.

“…when?” he asked, so soft that Rook almost didn’t think that he’d spoken. “When exactly are you hoping that ‘this’ will all work out?”

Asaaranda softened, lowering their defences to meet Varric at his level. He had shown more trust in them than they deserved, a blind faith and willingness to look past what would have been undeniable reason for suspicion.

He deserved to know at least this much. Even if they had no intention on letting it go beyond that.

“After the Winter Palace,” they told him. “Depending on how the timeline of things go… maybe even after Adamant?”

It all depended on when the Inquisition could get set up in the Deep Roads, how long it took Flemeth to forge the lyrium dagger, how quickly they could get into the Lighthouse after that, and then do everything else they needed to do.

It sounded like a wishy-washy answer, which it was. But it was also as close to the truth as they were willing to let him get to.

Varric turned his gaze towards them properly for the first time in the entire conversation. No longer was he looking through them, but straight at them with sheer determination.

“So after that… you’ll tell me what’s going on,” Varric stated, rather than asked.

With as good a fake smile as they could muster, despite the guilt that bubbled up in their gut, Asaaranda simply lied, “…I will.”

Chapter Text

The tensions between Varric and Asaaranda hadn’t quite cooled off by the time they had arrived to the Winter Palace. It was abundantly obvious to everyone that something had happened, but seemingly nobody was willing to be the first one to bring it up.

Rook had to admit, they were grateful for that fact. They were not particularly willing to open themselves up to all of the ugly emotions they’d been trying to ignore since that conversation.

It would’ve been a lot harder to compartmentalise if someone else forced them to address those feelings head-on. They were already struggling to keep it together in front of the entire Orlesian Court as it was.

Before they’d even made it through the doors of the Palace, several nobles had already made snide comments about Rook and the Inquisitor – questioning how the Inquisition could claim an ‘elven savage’ and an ‘oxen brute’ could ever be sent by the Maker and his most holy bride.

They supposed it shouldn’t have stung as much as it did. They’d grown up hearing as much at noble gatherings in Ventus, heard worse walking down the streets of Minrathous’ Hightown. Nobles were often the same no matter where one went, thinking themselves so above the common man and asserting it however they could.

Still, it was undeniable that Rook felt it grating on them. That combined with their confrontation with Varric had left them impatient, and ready to just get this court thing over and done with.

Halamshiral was massive, a city big enough to rival Minrathous. And the Winter Palace was practically the definition of opulence itself, only losing out on the Archon’s palace by virtue of the fact that it wasn’t floating in the sky.

Everywhere Asaaranda looked, their eyes were assaulted by half a dozen more golden accents and lion statues that glimmered from the lights shining within the Palace.

Gaspard had greeted them all at the gates, paying extra attention to Sabraen to warn them of the impending danger ahead in the court, before walking into the Palace itself.

The air inside of the vestibule was stifling. Fortunately, they didn’t linger there for long at all, as Gaspard waved them all inside of the ballroom to follow behind him.

It was thanks to the Grand Duke that they all had invitations to the ball in the first place. He expressed about as much disdain for the Grand Game as Rook did, but even he took to posturing before the entirety of Orlais like a duck to water.

“Accompanying the Grand Duke, Inquisitor Sabraen Lavellan! First of Clan Lavellan, Vanquisher of the rebel mages of Ferelden, crusher of the vile apostates of the Mage Underground!”

It was honestly remarkable how calm Sabraen looked as they walked across the floor. Whispers had started in earnest, especially with the announcement of their Clan title. The boldest of the nobility were swapping their grievances with no regard for who might hear it.

Yet that seemed not to perturb the Inquisitor whatsoever. Instead, they held their head up like they had more right to be there than the Empress herself.

Sabraen had taken to Vivienne’s lessons well. Rook, on the other hand, was wondering if they were going to end up tripping down the overly narrow stairs. Maker, they were nervous. They’d felt like a fish being circled by a sea of sharks, and all the whispering wasn’t helping.

“Accompanying the Inquisitor… Ser Rook of Minrathous, Knight of the Maker and Right Hand of the Inquisitor,” the crier called, giving Rook their cue to begin walking across the dance floor behind Sabraen.

That was their official title? Nobody told them that. Neither had they been informed that the Inquisition had apparently decided they were from Minrathous.

If it had been under any other circumstance, Rook might have been flattered and honoured to be called yet another lofty title. As it was, it just made them wince. So much for being discreet and forgettable.

At the very least, their hometown being incorrect would give them some level of privacy, and thus make them even harder to trace back to the Mercars in Ventus.

In an effort to present the same level of decorum as the Inquisitor, Asaaranda took a deep breath in and took their first step down the stairs.

Though it may well have only been a matter of seconds, it felt like an eternity with which the entirety of Orlais seemed to pause to predatorily appraise Rook. They’d stared down half a dozen dragons, madmen who thought themselves gods, and yet nothing brought them back to the fear of being a child again like the Orlesian Court did.

The masks left their facial features obscured, indiscernible, but it was obvious how they looked at Rook – like they were a Heffer wearing lipstick, ranging from coy amusement to outright disgust.

Empress Celene and her cousin, Florianne, at least had the sense to appear more polite as they each flashed Rook a gentle smile in greeting. It did nothing to ease their nerves.

Fortunately, the torture did eventually come to an end and Rook found themselves dizzily walking out of the ballroom, as if their feet had decided their path before their brain could catch up.  

Very few people were making an effort to approach them and chat, probably because they weren’t as approachable as Sabraen was. It was honestly kind of incredible how well the Inquisitor managed to charm the Orlesian Court, all the while privately gritting their teeth.

So far Asaaranda had politely greeted only one Duke and one Comtesse, and they both had sneered when they thought Rook was far enough away not to notice.

Maker, they were not cut out for this. Too many eyes were on them. They could feel every strategy Vivienne had taught them slipping away, and the beginnings of a panic forming in their chest.

As if by instinct alone, they soon found themselves led to the only other familiar face they could see. “Rook,” Solas greeted, as surprised to see them as they were to be next to him. “Having a pleasant evening thus far?”

“Not really,” they replied with a shudder. “You, on the other hand…”

“It has been remarkably invigorating,” he admitted with a sly smile. “I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events.”

Well, at least Solas was having fun. The smug bastard was practically lapping it all up in that dumb hat of his. As for what he’d said, Rook was suppressing a visible gag. They didn’t want to even remotely associate him with that sort of topic, it would ruin them for the rest of their life if they did.

“Ugh, sex? How anyone finds this event vaguely attractive is beyond me,” Rook scoffed in disgust, more playfully than they intended to be. “All I can think about is how uncomfortable I am.”

Solas hummed gently. “That discomfort may serve you well this evening. Only the arrogant are ever truly at ease in these events, and that too often is the source of their downfall.”

“Don’t suppose you have any other pearls of wisdom, do you?” they muttered, bitterly. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

He chuckled lightly, standing up from his place against the wall. “Try to remember that these people only think themselves above you because their entire world only extends to the boundaries of this court. They posture and sneer because they cannot imagine the depths of another’s experience. All that matters to them is the opinions of others, and the terribly shallow lives they lead.”

Despite Solas’ own smugness and his ever-grating arrogance disguised as wisdom, Rook felt oddly comforted. Admittedly, comforted wasn’t the right word, more like… tethered to familiarity.

His advice, however much they resented it, was useful. These nobles didn’t really understand anything about Rook, therefore their judgements were utterly useless in the grand scheme of things.

It was enough to get them to recognise the absurdity of the situation, and step back to screw their head on straight. “…I suppose you have a point,” they remarked, softly. “Nobility really are the same assholes wherever you go.”

Solas nodded, offering an almost nostalgic smile as he informed them, “The powerful have always been the same. Only the costumes change.”

Rook snorted to themselves, indulging in the joke that only they themselves would understand. “Oh, of course. I suppose you’re conveniently very familiar with the courtly machinations and pageantry bullshit from all over throughout history, aren’t you?”

“I have seen countless such displays in my journeys in the Fade, yes,” he insisted, managing to only sound a little bit defensive in the process. “I agree that such knowledge is convenient, given that it has allowed me to navigate this evening without much trouble.”

“Mmm-hmm,” they hummed, exaggerating the sound with a sceptic smirk. “Good thing your dreams just happen to offer the exact knowledge you need right before something big like this happens, huh?”

“One could say the same thing about your own knowledge of Thedas’ nobility, Rook,” Solas pointed out with the slightest playful roll of his eyes. “We are blessed with the gifts of our experience. The knowledge we carry with us, however we acquired it is irrelevant. What matters is how we use it to our advantage.”

It was as close to an admonishment of their prodding as he could get without revealing too much of his hand, Rook supposed. He had been civil, so there wasn’t really a reason to poke at him unnecessarily beyond achieving their own small and insignificant revenge.

“Sadly, I don’t think my knowledge is all that much help here,” Asaaranda sighed with faux dejection. “Unless becoming a temporary court jester might be of use to the Inquisition?”

The joke wrenched a small chuckle out of Solas, who conceded, “You never know. That said… at present, perhaps your focus could best be turned to making yourself one of their peers, rather than allowing yourself to be something for these people to mock.”

“Mmm, well,” Asaaranda huffed. “Gonna be an uphill battle for that to work. I’ve been called more variations of ‘ox’ or ‘cow in a dress’ tonight than my entire life. Safe to say, this whole ‘beat them at their own game’ thing was a disaster before I even got to try.”

“You have been perfectly fine from all I have seen,” Solas reassured coolly. “Perhaps a little panicked, but I am confident you can break out of that state. It may be worth attempting to mingle with those you are comfortable with, lest all the talking be left to the Inquisitor to handle.”

Asaaranda sighed. Yet another good point, as much as they hated to admit it. Becoming a wallflower all night would benefit nobody. “…yeah, alright. I’m gonna set up in the ballroom, I think. Thanks, Solas.”

“Anytime,” he replied with a nod. “Best of luck, Rook.”

Thanks to Solas’ unintentionally and infuriatingly familiar pep-talk, Asaaranda found the confidence to make their way back to the Ballroom. They didn’t have a specific goal in mind, other than ‘wait for the Inquisitor’s signal,’ but they supposed it could be worthwhile to make themselves known there.

Fortunately for them, Varric wasn’t in there – though they hadn’t seen where he’d disappeared off to since their initial arrival. They weren’t sure they could deal with the added tension of ‘not dealing with the elephant in the room’ on top of their already palpable tension from being at this damned ball.

When they returned to the ballroom, a line of guests had gathered at the top of the stairs. Apparently people were still arriving, which was incredibly surprising. Rook wasn’t sure how they could squeeze any more people into this place – especially considering the current fashion of hoop skirts took up enough space for at least three people.

At the very least, it made them somewhat inconspicuous. Less eyes were on them, now that they were already old news. Crowds were easy to disappear in, even if Rook towered over most people here (really the Iron Bull was the only one taller than they were.)

“Prince Ezio Valisti of the House of Valisti in Antiva, and Third Talon of the Antivan Crows,” the crier called out.

Rook froze, before remembering to adjust their posture and expression to something more appropriate. There were Antivan Crows here. Admittedly, not of any Houses that Rook had once allied with… but who was to say that there was no opportunity to forge new alliances this evening.

Perhaps if they were lucky, they might regain some old ones. As he walked up the stairs, about to head into the ballroom for any other reason, Rook quickly found themselves before the Assassin.

“Principe Valisti, buona sera,” Asaaranda greeted with a bow. “Sono Rook dell’Inquizione, possiamo parlare per un momento?”

“Ah, un qunari che sappia antivano? Now I’ve seen everything,” Ezio remarked with a dry chuckle. “Piacere, Signor Rook. I suppose you must be the one they are calling the Knight of the Maker.” 

“Yes, that’s me. Though, I’m afraid my Antivan is conversational at best,” Rook replied with a sheepish laugh. “The Maker grants many blessings, but fluency in every language does not happen to be one of them.”

Lucanis had taught them bits and pieces, and they’d picked up a few phrases from spending so much time at the Cantori Diamond. It wasn’t good, but their somewhat disjointed Antivan had done the job of gaining the Third Talon’s attention, which was all they needed for now.

Ezio deigned to give Rook a pitying smile. “Indeed. Well, I suppose He appears to have granted my wish for the evening. I had been hoping to catch up with a member of the Inquisition.”

His hand curled around his flute of champagne as he offered a sly look of intrigue. “So, tell me, Rook. Is the Inquisitor all they claim to be? A holy symbol sent by the Bride of the Maker to save us all from devastation? Or are they just an elven heretic playing dress up?”

“I know that they’re the only one who is able to close the rifts,” Rook replied, instead of answering what he really wanted to know. “They’re what we need.”

“A diplomatic answer,” the Crow noted through a sip of champagne. “But one that entertains my interest well enough.”

He’d all but set things up for them. It was surprisingly perfect.

“Allow me to see if I can further prompt your interest, Signore,” Asaaranda suggested with as nonchalant an expression as they could muster. “How close is House Valisti with the other Talons these days – the Dellamortes and De Rivas, for example?”

Ezio looked genuinely surprised, though he covered it well through a sip of champagne. “Those are powerful names you invoke there, Ser Knight. What interest could the Inquisition possibly have with House Dellamorte and De Riva?”

Asaaranda shrugged. “Even Antiva must be dealing with rifts, no? Aside from that, establishing a working relationship with the Crows ought to benefit us both in the days to come.”

The Third Talon chuckled, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Awfully presumptuous. But I admit… your proposal fascinates me. It is no secret that the Crows do not work in the South anymore. Would you intend to change that, or… is it merely that you wish to expand your Inquisition’s reach beyond Orlais and Ferelden?”

“If it were necessary,” they agreed with a shrug, once again choosing not to really answer either of his questions specifically. “There are terrible dangers that threaten all Thedas. It would be a worthy cause to discuss how the Crows may contribute, given the power your people hold.”

“We are hardly an organisation of soldiers, Ser Rook,” Valisti pointed out with a shake of his head and a playful smile. “Perhaps if you could specify exactly how the Crows may assist your endeavour, to see whether House Dellamorte and De Riva are truly a good fit for what you require.”

The implication was obvious. He wanted Rook to see House Valisti as an option instead. It wasn’t that they had written off Valisti entirely, just that they knew they could trust Viago and Lucanis more than they could this man.

Still, they had already said too much too publicly for one evening. There was a non-zero chance that someone else within the Inquisition had picked up on their conversation, and if Rook intended to recruit the Crows for themselves later, they needed to be careful.

Asaaranda chuckled lightly. “Alas, I think I may have been a touch overzealous for one evening, Principe Valisti. Far too many an ear may misinterpret what are the early days of discussion between our peoples.”

Ezio nodded in agreement, downing the last of his champagne. “You make an excellent point. It is hardly worth causing any fuss this early on, for what is just conversation.”

“Well then…” Rook trailed off. “I think then, you and I have much more to talk about at a later date. Perhaps we can set something up for the future?”

He offered them a gentle smile, one that was entirely smug and predatory. “Buona serata, Rook. The Crows will be in touch.”

With that, Ezio Valisti swaggered away, leaving both parties feeling as though they had the upper hand over the situation.

Frankly, Rook was giddy. They hadn’t really thought about whether they could or should try to recruit the others from the Veilguard again, but running into one of the Crows’ Talons by coincidence had been too good an opportunity to ignore.

Some part of them knew it wasn’t just because Lucanis would be helpful in dealing with Solas. It was also because of that still clinging hope they had, the hope to regain what they had lost by coming here in the first place.

There were things they gained, of course. Friendships they’d made in the likes of Cole, Sabraen, Vivienne, Sera, Iron Bull and so forth. Going back in time had practically reversed the deaths of two of the people that they held the most dear: Varric and Harding. Of course they were grateful for that.

But they had lost so much more. They had lost their family, unable to reach out to them without fear of compromising their position and desperately held secret. They had lost all their friends, every last one of the people they’d spent the last year or so working with.

They had lost the Shadow Dragons – Tarquin and Ashur – all the people that had been the first to embrace Asaaranda Mercar as they were.

Most importantly, they had lost the proof of their mistakes, of the regrets they still carried with them. It wasn’t that they wished for Minrathous to be blighted, or for Weisshaupt to be destroyed, or for Solas to have successfully trapped them behind the Veil – they just wished…

They wished somebody else truly understood how those things were real, and how it felt to be responsible for them. It didn’t matter that time had seemingly granted them an automatic undo. In their mind that changed nothing.

What had happened was real. And Asaaranda was the only one who truly remembered, who would ever remember.

So while, yes, they conceded that blatantly approaching Ezio Valisti and asking about the Dellamortes in front of the entirety of Orlais was hardly the wisest course of action – it was something Rook couldn’t find it within themselves to regret it.

There were far worse choices that they could’ve made.  

After the excitement of acquainting themselves with Ezio Valisti, Rook found themselves meandering back through the Hall of Heroes in search of a moment of reprieve.

It was the most relatively quiet area of the Palace, nigh empty except for Blackwall who had set up his position down the stairs by the servants’ quarters. There were, of course, the odd huddles of servants that came rushing by with trays and drinks.

Asaaranda mostly left them be, out of respect and the wish not to interrupt them lest they face the wrath of whichever noble had them in a panic. That was until Rook got lucky, and overheard something they of all people definitely should not have heard.

“We better hurry,” a pale and freckled servant hissed to her friend. “Briala’s fuming, the bloody mirror network’s locked us all out and we don’t know why. It’s cut off our escape routes, we have to redirect our people outside.”

“You’re kidding,” the other, a broad and stocky man, shot back. “You’re sure they didn’t just forget the passphrase?”

“I wish that was all it was,” the freckled girl groaned. “The thing’s gone dark. It doesn’t light up anymore, no matter who says the phrase. Not even Briala can get through.”

“It’ll take us hours to get outside of the city if we take the traditional route. We need that Eluvian,” he muttered furiously. “I’m gonna try and get the damned thing open. I’ll run back once I’ve managed it.”

Now that was interesting.

Rook supposed they had time for a detour. The Inquisitor hadn’t called on them yet, and there was absolutely no sign of any would-be assassin around. Plus, the bell hadn’t yet rung to signal the mandatory call back to the ballroom.

Subtly, Rook did what they could to trail behind the servant inconspicuously. Lo and behold, he ran back through the door to the Servants Quarters, which clicked shut behind him.

There was no way they would be able to lockpick their way in without getting caught and wildly embarrassing themselves. Damn it.

As if on cue, the first bell rang out – signalling the call for all guests to make their way to the ballroom. Vivienne had insisted upon the fact that a ‘fashionably late’ arrival was paramount to the reputation of the Inquisition, for signifying great importance within the court.

They were close enough to the ballroom that they were too early to arrive in accordance with this bizarre social norm, so Asaaranda took their time waltzing through the vestibule.

Sabraen was already there, albeit significantly more out of breath than Rook was, and about to enter the ballroom when a strikingly familiar voice called out.

“Well, well, what have we here? The leader of the new Inquisition, fabled Herald of the faith, delivered from the grasp of the Fade by the hand of blessed Andraste herself,” the voice drawled, punctuating each new title with the clack of heels against the marble stairs as she descended.

“What could bring such an exalted creature to the Imperial Court, I wonder? Do even you know?” she questioned, coolly and with a great swagger to her body language that was undeniably familiar.

Shit, that was Morrigan. They’d forgotten she would be there on this night, in amongst the many other considerations they’d had for everything else.

Flemeth hadn’t said anything specific to Rook about Morrigan – admittedly, she’d had no reason to – but her presence here was unnerving. A future vessel of Mythal, under the same roof as them, the night that an elven servant coincidentally mentions an issue with Eluvians? There could be no way that was just by chance.

More was going on here than the machinations of Corypheus alone. Given that it concerned the Eluvians, it therefore concerned the Crossroads and the Veil itself.

Which meant it concerned Rook.

Silently, and as subtly as one unsuited for stealth such as they could, Asaaranda took position to observe the Inquisitor and the witch as they spoke for the first time.

“We may never know,” Sabraen wisely shot back, in lieu of offering any real information to the not-quite rhetorical question Morrigan had greeted them with. “Courtly intrigues and all that.”

Even with her, they never ceased to play the Orlesian Game. It was impressive.  

“Such intrigues obscure much, but not all,” Morrigan uttered in response. “I am Morrigan. Some call me advisor to Empress Celene on matters of the arcane.”

In a swift stride, Morrigan led Sabraen away from the staircase she had arrived from and towards an otherwise unoccupied portion of the vestibule’s central balustrade. Asaaranda pursued at a distance, just close enough to hear the whispers exchanged without making it obvious

“You… have been very busy this evening, hunting in every dark corner of the palace,” Morrigan informed them, making it plain she’d been watching. “Perhaps you and I hunt the same prey?”

Sabraen offered an unimpressed eyebrow raise and a shrew-like smile. “I don’t know. Do we?”

A sharp but ineffectual laugh left Morrigan’s lips. “Aha. You are being coy.”

“I’m being careful,” they replied, arms placed on their hips questioningly.

“Not unwise, here of all places. Allow me to speak first, then,” Morrigan offered, once again continuing to lead the Inquisitor towards another portion of the vestibule, forcing Rook to change positions.

“Recently I found, and killed, an unwelcome guest within these very halls. An agent of Tevinter. So I offer you this: a key found on the Tevinter’s body.”

The glimmering key fell into the palm of the Inquisitor’s hand so quickly, it was like it was never even there.

“Where it leads, I cannot say. Yet if Celene is in danger, I cannot leave her side long enough to search. You can,” she explained.

“Briala’s people are whispering about disappearances in the servants’ quarters. This key may lead there,” Sabraen surmised, glancing at the key in their hand before tucking it away for safekeeping.

Damn it. They shared a destination, then.

It would be risky. More chances for things to go wrong, for them to be exposed, for absolutely any of the worst-case scenarios that jumped to mind to happen. But if they wanted to get any information out of Briala about the Eluvians, they had no other option. They needed to see for themselves what she knew.

Once they were sure Morrigan had taken her leave, Asaaranda made themselves known and appeared at Sabraen’s side with an innocent smile.

“Inquisitor,” Rook greeted evenly. “Just in time for the next bell, I think. Find anything that points us towards our potential culprit?”

“I think so,” Sabraen replied, letting out a sudden sharp sigh. “All the elves going into the servants’ quarters – Briala’s people – end up dead. I’ve got an awful feeling that’ll lead us to whoever Corypheus sent to infiltrate the palace.”

It made an unfortunate amount of sense. And given that their man who was trying to get into the Eluvian had gone into the servants’ quarters, it was likely that he was already dead. Their leads had already crossed over far more than Rook was comfortable with, but it was becoming plain that they couldn’t delay any longer.

The Orlesian Court weren’t the only ones they needed to play the Game with, it seemed.

Asaaranda turned to Sabraen, just as the second bell rang out to insist upon their return. “Alright then. Ballroom first for mingling, then we all hit the servants quarters together. Safety in numbers.”

“Good call,” the Inquisitor agreed, clearing their throat and preparing for the next onslaught of upcoming small-talk. “Shall we, Rook?”

As the pair stepped together into the ballroom – fashionably late, as they’d planned – both of them understood plainly that the true challenge of the night was yet to come.

And neither could afford to fail.

Chapter Text

Shortly after some mingling, the Inquisitor, Rook, the Iron Bull, Varric, and Solas had managed to abscond away from the ballroom in order to make their way into the servants quarters. Once inside, they all began to dress into their armour for combat – knowing it was an almost surety that such a thing would occur.

The Inquisitor sighed. “Creators willing, we make it back before the next set of bells or all that good will we’ve built up will be for nothing.”

Lavellan’s mask had slipped off completely, now that they were out of the eye of the court. It was clear that they were as fed up as Rook was with the pageantry and pedantry of the Game.

“It’ll be fine, Elfroot,” Varric reassured, as he took his crossbow in hand. “Last I saw, Madame de Fer had captured enough attention to get the court to forget about us for a while. We just need to be quick. Stay on course.”

“If anyone spots anymore halla statuettes, grab ‘em,” Sabraen called out, once they had finished dressing into their armour and swung their staff over their shoulder. “For some bloody reason, they open doors with all the secrets here.”

Well, that was bound to come in handy. The Eluvian would undoubtedly be behind one of those aforementioned doors. Unless the Empress didn’t know what they did, in which case it could very well be sitting out in the Gardens somewhere as an art piece.

The inside of the servants’ quarters were littered with elven corpses – all of them killed with expert precision. But no sign of the one Rook needed, at the very least.

“Damn it. These must be the elves Briala’s people are looking for,” Sabraen hissed under their breath. “I don’t know what I expected.”

“It’s alright, Elfroot,” Varric insisted. “Whoever did this can’t have gotten far.”

Methodically, their search continued through each of the rooms for signs of clues, caprice coins, and halla statuettes. Eventually, the servants’ quarters led them out into the gardens.

“There’s another body up ahead,” Solas noted. “A Council of Heralds Emissary?”

“With the Chalons’ family crest,” The Iron Bull finished, with a frown. “That feels entirely too convenient. Dead guy just happens to have evidence pointing straight to Gaspard on his body?”

“We should still have a word with the Duke,” Sabraen uttered with grimace. “Either he did it, or someone desperately wants to frame him for it.”

Just then, desperate and frightened screams echoed from the other side of the courtyard. In the blink of an eye, an elven servant made her mad dash across the cobbled path, pursued by a group of Venatori and a masked figure clothed entirely in fine red and white leathers.

It was just like an Orlesian to hire an assassin that prioritised showmanship just as much as efficacy. The assassin – a Harlequin – spun wildly through the air upon their attack, each dagger tearing through the flesh of its victim with grace and precision.

Then, within the same movement, a smoke bomb was thrown onto the ground – temporarily blinding all who had witnessed the attack. It gave the Harlequin ample time to leap up onto the Palace balustrade elegantly, before retreating into the shadows and out of sight.

With their assassin ally gone and the servant dealt with, the Venatori promptly turned their attentions towards the Inquisition members.

Rook reached for their staff, when out of the corner of their eye, they spotted sudden movement from across the courtyard that caught their attention.

It was the same servant from earlier. He was using the commotion from the fight to flee unnoticed. They couldn’t afford to lose him. And so, without any more moments of hesitation, they turned and began to pursue.

“Rook, what are you doing?!” Varric yelled, as he instinctually stood between them and the attacking Venatori that had noticed their departure.

“Cover me, I’m gonna try and catch up to the Assassin!” Rook called, as they used their magic to propel themselves forward into an even faster sprint. “We’ll regroup later!”

“Rook!” he called again furiously, to no avail. In the blink of an eye, they were already gone. Step for step, stride for stride, they followed behind.

The servant’s desperate sprint led Rook outside of the inner portions of the palace, and towards the entranceway gardens instead. Even the servant’s climb over the walls didn’t deter them, no matter how difficult it actually was.

Eventually, the servant slipped just out of sight – as he entered a hidden room on the outside of the Palace. It was close enough for Rook to know where he’d gone, but still, they cursed the delay.

While Rook contended with climbing up the railing, the man’s voice could be heard echoing out of the room. “Come on… Fen’Harel enansal!” the servant hissed furiously. “Open, you damned thing.”

Asaaranda tensed unwittingly. Of course that was the fucking passphrase. Solas just had to have his claws in everything. They weren’t exactly sure what ‘enansal’ meant, but invoking the Dread Wolf’s name before the Eluvians could only be a bad thing.

They continued to climb, as hurriedly as they could manage, when a sudden gurgle and spluttering cough replaced all intelligible words, making their blood run cold.

Footsteps, immeasurably soft and almost silent, patted against the marble floors. Rook froze in place, listening as the steps got further and further away. One they were sure they were the only one even remotely within the vicinity, they finally finished their climb up towards the room.

As they pushed through the door, they came upon the same stocky servant, throat slit with expert precision. His eyes were wide, un-blinking, and steadily gushing blood. His breath already stolen, and his life already sapped.

Damn it. He was already gone.

It didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Asaaranda had gotten the information they needed from him. Nonetheless, it didn’t stop the ache in their chest as they knelt down to carefully retrieve his body from the front of the Eluvian, and place it more delicately to one side.

They placed a hand over his face, then closed his eyes as gently as they could manage. There was no act of kindness that could make up for his death, but to treat his body with dignity would be better than nothing.

Maker willing, someone would discover him here later and inform his loved ones what had happened.

Reminding themselves of what they had come here for, Asaaranda turned their attentions to the Eluvian before them.

The shape was like the one at Skyhold, a large and looming golden arched frame, with a thick pane of glass that reflected in a series of dark golds and browns. Yet despite its inactive appearance, the undeniable hum of magic beneath it indicated otherwise.

“Fen’Harel enansal,” Rook spoke aloud, pushing a small bit of their own will behind it to see if their being a mage would make any difference.

There was a brief spike in magical energies, before it suddenly smothered itself and went cold again. Like it wanted to respond, but something was preventing it.

Whatever block had been placed here was recent, but powerful. More powerful than anything any mage Rook knew could be capable of. Except for Solas.

It didn’t make any sense, however. If these elves were working with Solas, why would he lock them out of the Eluvian network? There had to be some other explanation.

Rook hadn’t seen anyone other than Flemeth in the Crossroads at all, so maybe the fault laid with one of them.  

“Fen’Harel enansal,” Asaaranda tried again, more insistently and with a sharper push of magic. The block loosened slightly, as a burst of light suddenly flickered throughout the room. “Fen’Harel enansal!”

The block was broken and a sharp wave of blue light engulfed the room. But before Rook could silently celebrate the change, the shadow of a person began to fill up the light. Someone was coming through.

Before they could flee, the figure stepped through the light and entered the room. Unfortunately, he was all too familiar. 

“Imshael?” Rook hissed in alarm. “What are you doing here?”

The spirit regarded them with a grin. “Ah, Rook. Good, I was wondering if you were going to be on the other side. We never did manage to catch up after you met that old crone in the Crossroads.”

Maker, that was right. They’d been so flustered by Flemeth’s appearance that they’d forgotten their promise to meet Imshael.

“Shit,” they muttered under their breath. “It wasn’t intentional. Time got away from me.”

“No trouble at all,” he assured them with a shrug. “The path to the Lighthouse remains locked, so there is little we could have done for each other either way. I’ve been able to find ways to amuse myself in the meantime.”

“Please, tell me that it wasn’t you that killed all of the elven servants,” Asaaranda muttered tersely, furrowing their brow at him scrutinisingly.

He rolled his eyes with a playful smirk. “Oh, please. I’ve much better things to do than hunt down a few rabbits. Besides, I brought you a gift.” 

Imshael held out his hand, revealing none other than the one thing Rook had hoped to keep as far away from this damned ball as possible. The sleek blade forged of ironbark, and that damnable keystone at its hilt was the unfinished Arulin’Holm – the replacement lyrium dagger.

“How the hell did you get the Arulin’Holm?” they questioned furiously.

“’Oh, my, thank you Imshael! What delightful foresight, Imshael! I am ever so grateful!’” he said in a sly mockery of their voice, in lieu of a reply. “A little thanks would go a long way, you know. After I went out of my way to bring you what you left behind…”

“There’s a reason I didn’t bring this with me,” Asaaranda groaned frustratedly. “I’ve got enough trouble trying to figure out how to work my angle with the Elven Ambassador, I don’t need to risk someone discovering this on my person.”

Imshael’s eyes glimmered with intrigue. “The Elven Ambassador? You don’t mean the Empress’ pet Briala, do you?”

Apparently their hesitant silence was the only answer he needed. The spirit turned to them seriously and insisted, “If you wish to ‘work your angle’ with Briala, you’ll need evidence that you’re coming from a position of power. Trust me when I say – you’ll need this.”

When they narrowed their eyes at him, he shrugged nonchalantly. “Option two… I can simply take this back to Skyhold, instead. You learn nothing from the elf, but your precious dagger will be safe and likely get covered in dust from lack of use.”

Asaaranda reluctantly took the dagger with a sigh and a look of suspicion. “Okay, fine. Thanks, Imshael.”

Fortunately, their undergarments lended themselves quite well to secret weapon hiding. The lack of lyrium also helped, since there was no magic glow to worry about. They reached backwards and slipped the hilt in-between the ties of their breastband, as a makeshift holster.

“One last thing. You might wish to mention the name ‘Felassan’ to Briala. Just to cement your upper hand,” he suggested casually. “Be seeing you. Much as I would love to stick around, I think it best we catch up properly later. Always rude to show up to these things uninvited, after all.”

Felassan. That had been the name of Solas’ friend, hadn’t it? If Briala knew him…

Maker, that was not a good sign. Solas had more or less left behind his allies by the time Rook and Varric confronted him, but it was still unnerving to hear that he had them as far back as now.

It only provided more reason to get information from the Ambassador.

But before that, there was one other matter for concern. Just before Imshael could return to wherever the hell he came from, Rook cleared their throat and addressed him firmly. “How’d you know to come here to see me, anyway?”

“Oh, I didn’t,” Imshael replied with a dismissive wave. “I just followed the mirror with the most magical activity out of sheer benign interest. I’m still bound to the network, after all.”

Asaaranda supposed that was a fair enough excuse. Though that didn’t actually answer the most important part. “And you just happened to have the Arulin’Holm on you because…?”

“Because I am your ally and therefore knew where you left it,” he replied with an arched eyebrow. “Even I cannot access the mirrors from within the Crossroads themselves without their appropriate key. Since we are in this fight together, I figured borrowing it would be no issue.”

They sighed frustratedly, rubbing at the tension that had formed between their brow. “Yeah, look, if you could try not to take it without my knowing – that’d be great.”

“Very well. I will endeavour to try, oh Illustrious Leader,” he reassured with an apologetic bow-like nod and smile that Rook could only hope was sincere. “Now! You’ve a ball to return to, no doubt? Best of luck with the Ambassador.”

With that, he departed, leaving Rook alone with the glowing Eluvian and the dead servant. Asaaranda swallowed roughly, as a mix of several emotions all began vying for their attention.

There was no point in dwelling, however. Too much had to happen in rapid succession to allow much time for brooding.

They had to get back to the Inquisitor. They’d been separated from the group for entirely too long, and the others were bound to be getting suspicious. Quickly, Asaaranda retreated from the room, reclaimed the halla statuettes from the front of the door, and began to backtrack through the gardens.

Fortunately, the trail of Venatori corpses littering the palace made it easy to track the Inquisitor down.

**

After Rook had returned to the ballroom with everyone else, their game plan was clear. Briala, their target. The ultimate goal: find out what she knew about Solas’ plans, and if she was indeed an agent of his, try to dissuade her from his side.

“Ambassador, have you a moment?” Rook asked with a gentle smile.

“Ser Knight,” Briala greeted with a nod of acknowledgement. “Of course. I would be delighted to speak with you.”

As relatively private as the balcony seemed to be, the Empress’ three ladies in waiting were just on the other side of the door. If Asaaranda was overheard… no doubt the rumours about Briala’s loyalty to the Dread Wolf would saturate the conversations of the court within an hour or less.

They needed to be discreet. “Would you mind terribly if we sought out somewhere more private to speak? There are many curious ears abound tonight, I would hate for what we speak about to be misconstrued.”

Briala chuckled lightly, “Ah, of course. Well… if it is spies you are concerned about, I’m afraid nowhere in the Palace would be more private than the dance floor.”

Of course. Orlesians had a habit of combining conversation with dance. Well, it’s not like they had taken all of those dance lessons for nothing.

“May I have this dance then, Your Grace?” Rook asked as they offered their hand with a bow.

“Absolutely,” she replied, taking their offered hand with a hum. “I am eager to hear what it is exactly you wish to discuss.”

Scandalised murmurs started up in earnest as Briala and Rook emerged from the balcony together. Even Sabraen, who had already taken their place with the Grand Duchess Florianne on the floor, looked utterly taken aback.

“I don’t expect anyone could have anticipated this,” Briala remarked with a chuckle. “I am surprised you were willing to stir up such a controversy for the chance to talk privately.”

Asaaranda shrugged, as they continued to waltz alongside the Ambassador. “I imagine there will be other events that catch the attention of the court tonight. One simple dance between the two of us should hardly be all that interesting.”

“You underestimate the significance of us two taking our places here upon this floor, Ser Knight,” Briala rebutted calmly. “A Qunari claiming to be holy, dancing with the Elven Ambassador. Like it or not, some may see it as an invasion.”

“I have never claimed to be holy,” Asaaranda insisted, as politely as they could muster with the ever growing sensation of nausea. “But I see your point. We may as well give them a show.”

Each step was an attack, each sway a defense, and indeed every micro expression was an invitation for speculation. The game that Briala and Rook played here was not only between each other, but any and all spectators as well.

They could assume what they wanted. Asaaranda’s priority laid in making sure they got the truth from Briala. The dance steps were second nature, at this point. After so many weeks spent rehearsing, it was easy to settle into the rhythm of it all and focus on the Ambassador.

“I am sorry we were not able to save your people in time, Ambassador,” Rook began with a genuine sigh. “If we had been able to make it to the Gardens earlier, perhaps we might have been able to assist them.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Briala replied with a shake of her head. “They were good people. Many of them with families. It will be difficult to have to inform them at the festivities’ end, to tell them there was nothing more I could have done…”

“I understand,” they commiserated. “I met one such person tonight, a somewhat stocky man with pale blue eyes. He was headed through the Gardens, before I could catch up with him. I never saw who took his life.”

“Hugo,” the Ambassador noted. “I’ll have to send people for his body, when this is over. If you wouldn’t mind directing me.”

“It is funny you mention that,” Rook said, keeping their tone as even as they could, given the sudden giddiness they felt from Briala’s offering of a perfect segue. “I’d been hearing whispers all evening about a ‘mirror’ being locked. It was only when I found the poor man, that my suspicions were confirmed. You’ve got access to the Eluvians.”

“Is it of great concern to the Inquisition if I did?” Briala shot back, humming delicately. “I was not aware your organisation was concerned with more than stopping Corypheus.”

“The safety of Thedas is our primary concern, Ambassador,” Rook confirmed, as they delicately spun her around. “Which is why it concerns me that you’re working with the greatest threat that our world has ever faced.”

“Your claims are awfully bold, Ser Rook,” Briala said plainly, conveying little to nothing in her either her tone or her expression. “Can you back them up with any evidence?”

“I know that you’re working with the Dread Wolf,” Asaaranda insisted. “The passphrase your servants kept saying to try to get into the Eluvian network. ’Fen’Harel enansal?’ You couldn’t have made it any damn clearer where your allegiances lie.”

“Working with the Dread Wolf?” she tittered in amusement. “Do you really expect that invoking the name of a Dalish fairytale will frighten me?

Despite her mask, it was obvious how she’d tensed at the mention of Solas. Her expression was tighter, her eyes already significantly less kind. The grip she held on their wrist was almost crushing.

They had her cornered. Now, to go in for the kill.

“Perhaps not,” they agreed. “I’m more interested in finding out what connection you have with the agent of Fen’Harel, Felassan.”

The Ambassador sharply inhaled, then actually stumbled through the next step of the dance. It was so entirely unbecoming of one so accustomed to the Game, that several gasps echoed around the ballroom in turn for the mistake.

Rook had her in their clutches at last. “…so it’s blackmail you’re hoping to find from this dance,” Briala surmised grimly, cheeks just barely pink with fluster from making such a simple mistake.

“It’s not blackmail I’m looking for,” they told her gently, continuing to lead her in the dance. “Just answers. Maybe even more than that. I think we can help each other.”

“Help each other how, exactly?” Briala scoffed, though not immediately dismissing them out of hand.

“I have the key to the Eluvian network,” Rook informed her, at a particularly loud section of the accompanying music. “From what I gathered, your people inadvertently got locked out when I gained access.”

Briala’s gaze turned steely. “Am I supposed to take you at your word for that?”

“I’ll show you,” Rook reassured. “All I ask is that you give me information in turn. Then we can decide what happens regarding the network.”

“You would be willing to give it back?” Briala asked, surprised. “Why?”

“You stand up for the elves of Orlais,” Asaaranda acknowledged. “Our goals aren’t so different in that case. I still need access to the Eluvians, but there is no reason we shouldn’t cooperate. Once I can be sure where your allegiances lie.”

“Are you actually suggesting that this ‘Dread Wolf’ is a real enemy you face?” Briala asked, cocking her head in curiosity. “More to the point, that I would ally myself with him?”

“You tell me,” they challenged, as they dipped her at the song’s crescendo. “I would prefer to end this night with you and I as allies, Ambassador. All I need is the truth.”

Briala and Rook ended their dance with a bow, with grand applause from all over the court. The Grand Duchess and the Inquisitor had finished their own dance just as Briala and Rook did, meaning all eyes were on them instead.

People had already forgotten about the opportunity for controversy from the Elven Ambassador and Qunari Knight. It was perfect.

The pair took the opportunity to slip away from the eye of the public and continue their conversation in truly private quarters.

“Felassan… he was a friend of mine. A mentor of sorts,” Briala explained in a somewhat maudlin whisper. “He saved my life once, some years ago. It was partially because of him that the Eluvians did not fall into Celene’s hands.”

“The Empress knows of them?” Rook frowned, as they continued to fall in line behind Briala.

“Oh yes. Gaspard too. The mirrors are little more than trinkets to them, since the keystone and its secrets ended up in my possession,” the Ambassador sighed. “That said… if you are indeed telling the truth, it seems the efforts taken to acquire them matter not.”

Rook shrugged apologetically. “If it is any consolation… the efforts I took to reclaim the network were no simple matter either.”

A faint, forced smile fell across Briala’s lips. “Of course. None of these things ever are simple.”

After a moment of somewhat awkward silence, the elf turned to them and asked, “You said the Dread Wolf is the biggest threat our world has ever faced, yes? And that Felassan was working with him. Do you know… where he is?”

Seeing no reason to evade the truth, Rook nodded weakly. “I’m afraid he’s… he was killed,” they said. “By the very friend he swore to assist over the ages.”

If this was a surprise to Briala, she did not show it in her expression nor her body language. Her voice was strained as she spoke, however. “…The Dread Wolf?”

Asaaranda nodded again. There could be no platitudes they could offer that were sufficient, no words to make up for what was obviously a devastating loss. While they understood better than anyone else in Thedas what it meant to lose someone to the Dreadwolf, Briala didn’t have the same reasons to process the reality that Rook did.

After a moment and an exhalation of breath akin to a stifled sob, the elven ambassador turned to Asaaranda and insisted, “If what you say is true… then Fen’Harel is no ally of mine. And with the Maker as my witness, he has never been my ally.”

With her hand placed on her heart, and her eyes bearing into their soul, Rook could not help but believe her. That left only one matter for discussion between them. They reached behind themselves, and retrieved the Arulin'Holm from its place in their breastband to hold before Briala.

“Well, then… Let’s talk business.” 

**

Rook had honestly been anticipating the whole evening to end in violence, so seeing the Inquisitor best the Grand Duchess at her own game was outrageously satisfying. To make things even better, the Inquisitor had managed to get all three opposing parties to surrender and recognise that none of them held the upper hand – except for the Inquisition.

Celene, Gaspard, and Sabraen all addressed the Imperial Court together. Announcing the end of the Civil War and the brokering of peace between the two cousins.

Despite Briala have been blackmailed as well, it had been clear she was quite pleased with the outcome. Having a Dalish Elf master the Grand Orlesian Game would be the talk of Orlais for months to come.

Asaaranda’s own reputation with the Court was… well, it wasn’t quite as good as Sabraen’s. They weren’t socially shunned by any means, but their polite chatter and dancing skills paled in comparison to the ultimate show that the Inquisitor had put on.

Not that they much cared. The Orlesians could think what they would of them. It was probably for the better that Rook be mostly forgettable, anyway.

The best part of the ball hitting its dramatic peak, however, was not just seeing the Inquisitor kick ass. It was the permission to unwind. Asaaranda had beelined straight for the refreshments, after being too nervous and too busy to eat or drink the entire night.

Most of it cost as much as three months’ salary back home in Docktown, but Maker, it was worth it. Fine salt-cured meats, an array of vegetables, crackers, little frilly cakes and canapes, as well as enough cheese to make a bed out of covered metres-long trestle tables in the Garden wing.

The part where they could finally take advantage of the amenities had arrived, and Rook intended to indulge to their heart’s content. They had earned it, after all.

To think, they’d arrived to the Winter Palace with the intent of just surviving the night, and would soon leave with the Antivan Crows and Briala as their promised allies.

Rook gathered their choice of indulgences onto their plate, and found a relatively private corner to begin their miniature feast. Sadly, it wasn’t long after their feasting began, that Rook suddenly found themselves in familiar company. “Oh Rook! Hi! What have you got there?”

Lo and behold, it was Lace. They’d been lucky not to cross paths with her during the main portion of the ball. Truthfully, they weren’t sure they would have been able to focus on their goals for the evening if she had been around earlier.

“Harding!” they greeted in turn, somewhat flustered and still on high alert. “It’s… uh, some kind of cheese. Want some?”

Harding’s eyes lit up. “Oh Maker, can I? I’ve been starving all night, couldn’t find a way to the snack table without getting caught up in conversation.”

She took the offered plate eagerly, then popped a small slice into her mouth promptly. As if it were the best thing the dwarf had ever tasted, a sudden low moan rumbled in her throat.

Maker, the shot of heat that ran through Asaaranda’s veins was entirely inappropriate. Everything suddenly felt significantly warmer, and they could’ve sworn their corset had tightened around the swell of their bust.

Cheeks flushed, lip between their teeth, Rook was a flustered mess and all it had taken was a simple groan of entirely nonsexual appreciation from Harding.

“Sorry,” she muttered sheepishly. “I probably look like a maniac, just shovelling cheese in my face wearing this way too nice dress.”

The truth was that she could’ve been wearing absolutely anything, and Rook would’ve thought she was the most stunning thing in the room. But there was something particularly striking about the way she looked under the candlelight, how it illuminated her auburn hair to appear like flames running down her shoulders.

Normally, she had it up in a tight bun, out of her face and eyes. That night, it was entirely loose – not even any braids or anything – showing off the natural wave and texture of her tresses.

The dress was a deep burgundy, so dark that it almost appeared black without sufficient light. The bodice was form-fitting, well-cut in a way that emphasised her fuller figure, with matching swag sleeves that hung off each of her muscular freckled shoulders.

Each and every detail was eye-catching. Several dozen little crystals cascaded down the bodice, into the ballgown’s skirt like waterfalls made from stars. Everything about her was like gazing upon the sunset sky; at the perfect time between dusk and the beginnings of true night.

Undeniably, however, the most beautiful thing about Lace Harding was the way that her eyes crinkled around the edges when she smiled. However sheepish she was in that moment, however slightly embarrassed she appeared to be… it was a sure sign that she was at the very least happy.

And that was something Rook had longed to see for far too long.

“You look beautiful,” Asaaranda declared honestly, feeling a mixture of fondness and gut-wrenching grief seize them in unison. “Really. You put this entire court to shame.”

Harding flashed Rook a flattered and affectionate smile. “Thanks Rook. Really.”

After a moment of unwaveringly tense silence, the dwarf cleared her throat roughly.

“I, uh… I noticed you out there with the Ambassador. You did great,” Harding began with a sheepish chuckle. “Glad it looked like all that practice spent together wasn’t a waste, huh? Shame you only really got one dance out of it.”

After having spent the majority of the evening running around, digging for info, fighting Venatori, and watching as the Inquisitor played the Game to build political connections for their own gain, Rook wasn’t too disappointed, personally speaking. They didn’t exactly enjoy making themselves a spectacle before all of Orlais.

“I think it went pretty well,” Asaaranda agreed. “Maybe it would have been nice to get one more dance out of tonight, but I can hardly complain about the result. We dealt with the Duchess, put a butt on a throne, and so forth.”

Lace laughed warmly. “And you wore a very beautiful tailored outfit.”

Rook’s cheeks warmed, unable to stop the fluttering in their stomach from reading too much into the comment. “Beautiful, huh?” they asked.

“Gorgeous, even,” Harding answered, unabashedly in such a way that only made Rook swoon even more. It was dangerous to let this continue as it was. It was impossible to deny her, and they weren’t sure how much longer they could endure it.

They needed to do something about this, they needed to end this before it began. It wouldn’t be fair to this Lace for her to bear the burdens of Asaaranda’s grief, nor the life that she hadn’t lead yet.

With their heart in their throat, deep terror in their gut, Rook tried to get themselves to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Courage evaded them twice as much as honesty did.

“So, I was thinking… since it looks like things are winding down. Would you wanna dance? With me?” Harding had gotten there first and spoken before they could even scramble to find what they wanted to say.

And it had all but sealed their fate.

“Yes,” Rook’s traitorous lips uttered breathily before their brain could catch up with their soaring heart. “My lady, it would be an honour.”

Lace’s eyes lit up like stars, and her beautiful smile only grew. When she took Rook’s hand in hers, they swore that they could’ve felt the heartbeat of the entire universe itself.

Together, they walked hand in hand throughout the palace to the dance floor. As if in an echo of the evening’s earlier events, the Inquisitor was already there with the Iron Bull in tow. Unlike their dance with the Grand Duchess, however, there was no stress or tension visible in Sabraen’s expression.

It seemed that neither they nor Bull took any notice of the world around them, even though the entire Orlesian Court’s collective eye was on them. Briala had been correct about the fact that an Elf dancing with a Qunari at the Winter Palace would be a significant to nigh controversial event – though Rook was sure she couldn’t have predicted exactly which elf and qunari would be the subjects of such controversy

Fortunately, the court’s distractions afforded Asaaranda and Lace some semblance of privacy. For the second time that night, as Rook danced, they couldn’t help but be grateful for the dance floor’s uncanny ability to allow for discreet conversation.

For if any spies had happened to listen into the whispers being swapped between Lace Harding and Asaaranda Mercar, they would have discovered just how easily Harding had already wrapped Rook around her finger.

Chapter Text

Although the Ball at the Winter Palace was done, the work leftover from the event was nowhere near its conclusion for anyone.

The Inquisition had made more friendships in the Orlesian Court in a single night than they’d made over the months since its creation, and the workload had appropriately increased to reflect that.

That case was the very same for Rook, as well.

Ezio Valisti had kept his word and gotten in contact with Rook through letters. He explained that the Dellamortes were happy to talk with them in regards to a contract, but would not be able to make the journey south to Skyhold to discuss it.

Naturally, they obviously had no issue with it and thanked Ezio for passing their message along.

Furthermore, Briala’s cooperation at the Winter Palace was going to prove invaluable. Aside from the fact that she had gained significant power the previous night thanks to the Inquisitor, Briala was more skilled than even Leliana as a spymaster - which Rook desperately needed.

Imshael had been right about the fact that mentioning Felassan would be what won her over.

Their little informal organisation was growing by the second. With Cole, Imshael, Merrill and Briala as their allies, and undoubtedly more still to come, Rook was certain they could regain their foothold over the Lighthouse any day now.

After sending a few more letters to their new contacts at the Rookery where Leliana and the mailing system of Skyhold resided, Asaaranda descended the stairs of the tower and made their way out into the main hall, with the intention of going straight back to their quarters.

“Rook,” Varric called out from his place by the fire, stopping them in their tracks. “Just hold on. Have you got a minute?”

“Sure,” they replied, swallowing roughly. “What’s up?”

“So, uh… a few of us were planning on doing a little afterparty for the Ball at the Herald’s Rest,” he explained, after clearing his throat. “You should join us.”

Oh. That hadn’t even been remotely what they thought he would say, given how they’d only last spoken properly in an argument. Sheepishly, they began to squirm as they rubbed the back of their neck nervously. “Oh, uh… I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Varric assured with a shrug. “Besides, when’s the last time you got to just let loose in good company?”

Asaaranda truthfully couldn’t remember. The last time they’d gotten drunk had been out of despair that they couldn’t go home, but that hardly counted as ‘letting loose’.

It did surprise them that Varric was actively inviting them. They wondered if this meant he had forgiven them for that little argument they’d had before the Winter Palace.

“Alright, I will,” Asaaranda agreed, with a gentle if somewhat uneasy smile. “I’ve got time for a quick drink.”  

“Great!” he replied, visibly untensing and falling back into a charismatic easy smile. “Maybe we can get the cards out as well – have you ever played Wicked Grace?”

Varric led them both through the halls of Skyhold, down the stairs to the courtyard, and through the doors of the Herald’s Rest. The atmosphere was appropriately jovial for a midweek celebration, filled with various patrons of both noble and commonfolk alike.

Right at the furthest back wall of the tavern was a table with Sera, The Iron Bull, and a few other empty seats.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Bull hummed contemplatively. “I’m pretty sure it was the redhead screwing the old guy, not the brunette.”

“You’re daft,” Sera rebutted with a playful scoff. “The redhead and the brunette were the ones screwing. The old guy was obviously just trying to make a pass at ‘em both.”

“Couple of sovereigns say otherwise,” he shot back. “You in?”

“Deal,” Sera agreed with a determined cackle. “That’s next round covered then!”

“I see you two have started early,” Varric called out as he arrived, gesturing at the bottle of spirits sat between them and the pints of ale either side. “Looks like we’ve got some catching up to do.”

“Hey, guys,” Rook greeted. “Is anyone else joining us?”

“The boss still has some paperwork to catch up on,” Bull informed with a shrug. “Something about a bunch of letters coming in from new alliances and crap. Should be here later though.”

Varric hummed, as he poured himself a glass of bourbon. “I extended an invitation to pretty much everyone. I saw Sparkler and Chuckles earlier, but it’s up in the air if either of them will make it. Might just be the few of us here.”

“More for us then!” Sera declared cheerfully, as she took her drink in hand and sculled it until it was gone. “Another round, Cabot!”

Quickly, they were all greeted with a pint of ale each and the evening turned into the casual drinks among friends that Rook had expected. Aside from it being an opportunity to unload all of the crap from the Winter Palace, it was also the first time in a while that Asaaranda could feel themselves truly relax.

Perhaps they needed to do this sort of thing more often.

“Speaking of, how good was Inky up there dealing with Duchess What’s-Her-Face?” Sera guffawed.

“I couldn’t have come up with an exit line that good if I were trying,” Varric agreed with a hum. “’You lost this fight ages ago, Your Grace - you’re just the last one to find out.’ Gotta stick that one in the book.”  

Asaaranda hummed questioningly at him. “You’re writing a book about the Inquisition?”

“Of course,” he replied with a smirk and a shrug. “My best material comes from experience. And I’ve no doubt people will be itching to hear what the Inquisition really gets up to. My publisher’s already hounding me about the drafts.”

“Already?” The Iron Bull snorted. “Bit early to think about that, don’t you think?”

“I’d have more to give him if you and Elfroot shared some details about your private life, Tiny,” Varric pointed out, making the other man scoff and shake his head.

“I already said no, Varric,” he grumbled lightly. “That’s between me and them.”

“Yeah, it was real private, you and ‘em dancing together on that dance floor,” Sera added with a cackle. “Thought Josephine was going to burst a blood vessel, the way she puckered up.”

“Boss was happy,” Bull shrugged nonchalantly. “After a night of dealing with Orlesian assholes and acting like one of them, I figured they could use a bit of time to show off who they really are.”

“Well, I suppose I can work with that,” Varric chuckled lightly. “The Winter Palace chapters might be a bit long, though. Between you and the Inquisitor, then Harding and Rook, there’s a whole lot going on.”

Asaaranda perked up defensively, face erupting into a blush almost immediately. “You—what? Surely, you can’t… You’re not gonna write about—”

He had to be kidding, surely. There wasn’t anything that had happened that was worth writing about, was there? It had just been one dance.

Apparently, that had been the wrong reaction to give, as Sera, Varric, and Bull all suddenly turned their attentions onto their flustered state with similar shit-eating grins.

“Oh, yeah, that’s right, you and Scout Harding,” Sera prodded with a grin. “Didn’t expect it, but it makes sense, you and her.”

“We are not together,” Asaaranda insisted, unable to banish the warmth in their cheeks from giving away the truth. “Harding asked me to dance, and I accepted, that’s all.”

“Ah, so she was the one testing the waters. Nice,” Sera surmised instead, offering an exaggerated wink. “Again, didn’t expect you to be the butt end, but hey! Whatever works.”

That had been the entirely wrong moment to take a drink, as Rook choked on their ale almost immediately.

“If you need someone to be your wingman, I’m happy to provide,” Varric chuckled, waggling his eyebrows.

Asaaranda groaned with embarrassment, “Maker’s breath, Varric, no!”

“So what, you’ve got the hots for Harding. Why not go for it?” The Iron Bull supplied, with a knowing nod in their direction.  

Shame and desperate longing curled up in Asaaranda’s stomach, “I… I really don’t think I could, even if I did. I’m not looking for anything serious.”

“Who says it has to be serious?” Sera added haughtily. “Just go for a roll in the hay and be done with it.”

What a choice that’d be. It wasn’t as though they hadn’t thought about it… Longed for it. Harding had been untouchable for so long because of the raw lyrium running through her veins. Unless they wanted to die from lyrium poisoning, sex hadn’t remotely been on the table for either of them.

And in this time, she was… It wouldn’t be right. Entertaining the dance together had been a mistake, and to take it further would be an even bigger mistake that they needed to shut down right now.

No matter how much it hurt them now, it would only hurt her worse later.

Varric glanced over in Asaaranda’s direction, expression falling as understanding finally clicked at the sight of their own forlorn look. “Oh, Rook…”

The Iron Bull also gave them a sympathetic glance, and Sera had also evidently clued into their emotional state as she looked at them with a sharp grimace.

“It’s not…” Asaaranda swallowed harshly. “I’m not in love with her.”

“I’d almost believe you if not for that sour look on your face, Rook,” Varric sighed as he began to pat them on the back reassuringly.

Perhaps it was the beer, the friendly faces, or the deep desperate desire for connection but Asaaranda just shuddered and admitted with a mumble into their hands, “This isn’t fair. Maker, the world’s falling apart and I just can’t get her off my mind. How could I be so selfish?”

Sera rolled her eyes, after taking another scull of her drink. “Oh, piss off. You’ve got a bloody crush; it’s not like you’re taking advantage of people while Coryphe-shit wrecks the world.”

“Exactly,” The Iron Bull agreed. “If anything, it might actually help you. You’re more wound up than the Boss is. And trust me, they’re really wound up.”

“Now that’s a tad too much information, Tiny,” Varric remarked with a chastising shake of his head.

Asaaranda flashed Varric a look of helplessness, before dropping their head down onto the table with groan.

He gave them another pat on the back and sighed. “Look, we never know what’s waiting for us ahead in the road. We can only do little things in the moment to make the journey more enjoyable. You never know what you’ll miss out on while you were busy asking yourself if it’ll be worth it.”

As nice as the sentiment was, it didn’t exactly change anything.

“That’s not the issue, Varric,” Rook murmured forlornly. “I’m not… the point isn’t that I’m worried about whether or not this is worth it.”

As if the world itself was looking to spite them, Cole suddenly appeared beside them with a hurried murmur. “Poisonous longing, an ache in the chest that won’t go away. Have to put it aside, no matter if it hurts. Won’t let her be another thing to regret.”

“Damn it, Cole,” Rook hissed under their breath. He always arrived to spill their deepest secrets concerning Harding at the most inconvenient times. “Do you mind?”

“Oh, great, Creepy’s here,” Sera grumbled with a roll of her eyes. Fortunately for him, she was just drunk enough not to care, and not seek to do anything about it.

“Well, hey, now that the kid’s here, we’ve got a decent group to start a game of Wicked Grace!” Varric pointed out in an attempt to steer the topic towards the drunken favourite of gambling. He produced a deck from within his pants pockets, and placed it poignantly in front of The Iron Bull with a somewhat stern look. “Tiny, deal us in, would you?”

Unfortunately for Rook, it seemed fate was not on their side that night. The Iron Bull grinned, gesturing at the tavern door as it swung open. “Hang on. Looks like we got room for another person.”

Their heart dropped into their stomach, like a stone at the bottom of a pond. There was no way this was a coincidence, some divine force out there was fucking with them for its own amusement.

Their fate was sealed as the Bull cried out, his booming voice making it over the general chatter of the tavern. “Hey, Harding! You free? We could use another player!”

Asaaranda glared furiously at him, cursing him and whichever force had orchestrated this with everything they could muster. Varric, at the very least, offered a somewhat apologetic look for having his diversion absconded away – but the damage was already done.

“Oh, hey guys!” Harding called back, as she scurried over to the table with a grin. “Sure thing! Just got back, I could use a break.”

When her eyes fell on Rook, her gaze softened and she smiled gently at them. “…hey Rook.”

“Hey,” they returned, in a tone that was equally as soft, despite their bubbling frustrations like acid in their gut. “Good to see you.”

“Grab a seat, Harding,” Bull prompted with a shit-eating grin, gesturing to the empty one beside Rook. “You want anything to drink? I was heading up to the bar anyway.”

“Oh, uh, that’d be great! Just a house beer, whatever’s cheapest,” she replied with a sheepish expression, as she shuffled into the seat nearest to Asaaranda.

The Iron Bull nodded, not-so-subtly winked at Rook pointedly, before heading on over to the bar to order more drinks.

With a slight sigh, Varric finished shuffling the deck of cards and handed out five cards to everyone at the table. “Alright, looks like I’m dealing this time. We’ll start at just two silvers. You all familiar with the rules?”

Everybody took their cards in hand, and the games began. While Wicked Grace typically required a certain amount of attention, an ability to catch any cheaters, and indeed cheat for oneself – Rook wasn’t remotely focused on the game.

They hadn’t seen Lace Harding look so at ease for months. Normally, out on the field, she maintained a certain level of professionalism and that came with a world-ending crisis amount of tension.

But here, she was just so much more content.  

“So, couldn’t help but notice you weren’t with the rest of us on the way back,” The Iron Bull added, not-so subtly probing at Harding whilst in the midst of the game for Rook’s sake. “You spend some time in the City or something?

“Oh, I was in Redcliffe for a bit,” she explained, while she played one of the cards in her hand. “Ambassador Montilyet needed me to sort out some routes between our merchant contacts and the new stronghold in the Emprise du Lion, so I went on a little detour to visit my ma while I was there.”

Bull nodded in understanding, as he acquired another mischievous look in his eye that made Asaaranda begin to sweat nervously.

“How is your mom? Is she doing alright?” Rook asked in a sudden interjection, aiming for casual, all while failing miserably.

“She’s good!” Harding said, as she smiled plainly. “Worried more than ever, but she’s happy to hear I got some use out of my dance experience.”

“I haven’t thanked you properly for those lessons, you know,” Asaaranda hummed awkwardly. “I would’ve looked like a total ass out there if not for you.”

“You would’ve done great regardless,” Harding reassured with a shake of her head. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Rook. You’re kind of amazing. I couldn’t take my eyes off you when you were dancing with the Elven Ambassador.”

Rook’s hand tightened around the pint in their hand, all while every nerve in their body seemed to scream in response. “Well, uh… I suppose if I ever find myself in need of a career change, professional ballroom dancer might be on the table then,” they joked, after swallowing the lump in their throat.

The warm melody of Lace’s laughter did nothing to quell the roiling cocktail of varying feelings brewing in Asaaranda’s gut. If anything, a sudden shot of nostalgia rushed through them – taking them back to the first time they had ever heard such a beautiful sound.

Maker, they were doomed.

She beamed brightly at them, amusement plain on her features. “You really think you’ll need a career change after this?”

“Oh… uh, I dunno,” they replied, humming through another sip of their drink. “Probably not. I guess it’s nice to think about a future where the fate of the entire world isn’t at stake, but I have no idea what that looks like.”

Thinking about it made them nauseous. It was hard enough to contend with the present, let alone the unknown future ahead. They knew what they wanted the end result to be, what they thought they needed to do to get there, but even so… it was all so uncertain.

Imagining anything more than an end to their immediate crisis was too much to bear. They were certain it would break them.

“What about you?” Asaaranda asked, coughing through the bile that had crawled up their throat in warning. “Any idea what you’d wanna do when this is all over?”

“It’s hard not to imagine that I could do this forever,” Harding admitted sheepishly. “Going all over Thedas, seeing everything from the darkest of caves to the brightest of skylines… Despite the circumstances that got me here, it’s hard not to be grateful.”

That was a sentiment that Rook could understand. They had often thought that themselves, at times. However much they hated Solas, however much they resented what he did and had yet to do – they could only ever have been grateful for the good it had brought them.

Their expression softened. “…yeah. It’s honestly… there are so many people I would never have met if I never left the Imperium.”

“I know what you mean,” Harding replied, her eyes inadvertently piercing straight into Asaaranda’s soul. “I mean, think about the two of us. Don’t think we would’ve come across each other if not for the Inquisition. If I never left Redcliffe and if you...”

“…and if I never left Minrathous,” Rook finished, mournfully. “Yeah. It’s… it’s hard to think about a world where I never met you. Don’t think I want to.”

“Me neither,” she agreed. In one gentle, yet world-shattering motion, Lace reached her hand over the table to gently squeeze theirs in an act of reassurance. No touch from any other person alive could be so kind, yet so cruel.

Truthfully, the game of Wicked Grace was quickly forgotten by both of them. It was good for Rook, who had a hard enough time discerning what the cards meant to even begin to think about the bluffing aspect of the game.

Their coin and cards ended up in the hands of whoever wanted them, as both Asaaranda and Lace found their way over to a more private table to chat in peace.

Rook wasn’t sure how long they spent at that table with Harding, or why their glass seemed to never get empty. It was easy to lose track of time, even easier to forget that the world was larger than the tiny wooden table between them.

For however long it had been, the world consisted only of Lace Harding and Asaaranda Mercar. Their responsibilities, their realities, everything else that could have come between them was entire worlds away.

“Speaking of, I hear you’re the reason I’m headed out to Orzammar in a few days,” Harding noted with a chuckle. “Gotta say I didn’t think I’d ever actually make it there.”

Asaaranda frowned in polite confusion. “Huh. Why not?”

“Historically, surfacers like me weren’t allowed in Orzammar,” she explained. “I mean, King Bhelen’s as progressive as they come, but some folks still hold onto the older values. They think being born on the surface means you’re not really dwarven.”

Rook and Harding had hardly talked about Orzammar, back before all this. It never seemed relevant to taking down Solas, so it just never came up – aside from when the Shaperate had refused to help her learn about her Stone Magic.

“That… makes an unfortunate amount of sense, based on what I’ve heard about Orzammar,” Asaaranda sympathised. “Sounds an awful lot like how ‘real Qunari’ talk about folks like me. You don’t think you being a surfacer is gonna stir any trouble with those assholes?”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured. “I’ve heard good things about the person I’m supposed to meet. Shaper… Valta, I think it was? Besides, I can handle whatever they throw at me.”

Valta. After the Inquisition encountered a living Titan, she was the one who disappeared into the Deep Roads to become the Oracle and protector of Kal-Sharok. The one Harding sought advice from to deal with the shade of the Titan.

Rook tried to maintain the illusion of polite interest, all while the ache of loss settled into their gut like a poison once again. Being able to draw direct connections between their Lace and this Harding was… difficult.

It made it even harder to think of them as separate people, and to try and tear themselves away from the resurging affection that they felt for her.

All the things they didn’t say. All the things they couldn’t say. Every single thought they’d had since losing her…

Asaaranda offered a tight smile. “Never doubted that for a second, Harding.”

Maker forgive them, but they weren’t strong enough to lose her a second time.

At some point, it seemed like the entire Herald’s rest had called it a night – leaving just the two of them alone by each other’s side. Varric had offered them a thumbs-up as he left, probably intended to be encouraging, even if all it achieved was making them feel more unsure of themselves.

Harding remarked, “It’s been nice to just catch up, honestly. Sometimes it feels like I hardly know anything about you, Rook.”

“That’s on purpose,” Asaaranda admitted, their traitorous liquor-laden tongue once again getting the better of them. “The Inquisition is… not the easiest place to be myself.”

Lace frowned sympathetically. “How do you mean?”

“I’m… I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” they murmured wearily. “And I can’t afford to anymore. Not here. Not now. But I don’t know how to be the kind of person who doesn’t make mistakes.”

“I don’t think anyone does,” Harding interjected as she shook her head. “It’s part of life, you know? We all make mistakes once in a while. I don’t think that means it’s all that you are.” 

“We hardly know each other,” Rook pointed out with a pained smile. “Don’t think I’ve done anything to inspire such confidence.”

“If you truly think that, I don’t think you know yourself at all,” she rebutted with a fond smirk. “I admire you, Rook. Through everything you’ve faced here, you just keep going. No matter what. A lesser person would have given up by now.”

“The same could be said of the Inquisitor,” they shrugged dismissively. “Or anyone here. You, in fact. You didn’t have to leave Redcliffe to join the Inquisition, but you did. You could’ve gone back after Haven. I don’t think that makes me special.”

“You’re trying awfully hard to avoid a genuine compliment,” Harding teased, before her expression suddenly fell. “…am I reading everything wrong between us? I just thought that after Halamshiral—”

Maker, that wasn’t how they’d wanted to do this.

“No! You’re not,” Asaaranda blurted out, mortification seeping through their veins. “Maker, forgive me, I just… it’s been a while. And I’m… there are too many things that could complicate this. I don’t want to hurt you.”

They had far too many drinks. They were loose lipped when drunk and they knew it, but still they’d just kept having them to deal with the nerve. Honesty was one hell of a drug, and they were about to overdose on it.

“You mean a lot to me for reasons I just can’t explain,” they finally admitted with a mournful frown. “And that’s why it scares me so much when you say things like that, Lace.”

A sudden unrecognisable glint appeared in Harding’s eye. She straightened up, rolled her shoulders back, and turned her gaze seriously towards them. “I trust you, Rook. ”

Lace tenderly cupped Asaaranda’s cheeks, glanced down at their lips, leaving just one singular moment for Rook to realise what was coming before it happened.

Though Harding no longer had lyrium coursing through her veins, Asaaranda could’ve sworn they felt the rush nonetheless as her lips pressed against theirs in a gentle kiss.

All sense of reality slipped away from their grasp. The world was reduced to just the two of them, as every sensation save for the ones they shared ceased to exist.

Asaaranda swooned in her arms, proving that they were indeed doomed.

Although Harding was the one to initiate the kiss, Rook was the one to deepen it. Their hands moved to her hips to pull her closer, until she was practically sprawling in their lap.

It wasn’t until their own whimper of contentment fell from their lips that Asaaranda’s mind caught up to the movements of their heart, and the need for air. Breathlessly, they pulled back and tried to bring themselves to end it.  

“We shouldn’t,” Asaaranda breathed out fruitlessly against Lace’s lips. “It isn’t right, even…”

“Says who?” Lace challenged with a mischievous chuckle. “Come on, Rook. It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid with me.”

A shuddering moan left Rook in response. They could have easily pushed her away if they wanted to, but they lacked the will to do so. It was all too easy to fall into her embrace, even easier to lose themselves in the haze of intoxication and endorphins.

“Amatus,” they mumbled weakly, unable to conjure up much more to say. It wasn’t clear if she knew the meaning of the word. Nonetheless, Harding smiled softly and pressed another kiss to Asaaranda’s lips.

She was a veritable hurricane, and they were powerless to resist. Rook was drowning within her and Maker, it felt impossibly good to give in to temptation.

The rest of the night was an absolute blur, not because of any intoxicants either, just from the sheer adrenaline rush of it all. They remembered leaving the Herald’s Rest with her, stumbling down the stairs to their room by the gates, and then everything else seemed to slip away from their memory.

Perhaps most absurdly, the thought that stuck out in Rook’s mind before they fell into their first peaceful slumber in months – was that they were glad to not have spent their first night with Lace on that damned couch in the Lighthouse.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Asaaranda was the first to wake, blinking slowly as sunlight streamed through the window.

As awareness slowly joined them in their wakefulness, the first thing Rook registered was a surprisingly pleasant ache they felt in various places of their body.

The second thing they noticed was the state of their bedroom. It was an even more chaotic mess than usual – clothes and undergarments haphazardly thrown into random corners all around the place, in addition to their typical assortment of papers, herbs, and books.

Last of all, Rook’s attentions were finally turned towards the entirely nude woman fast asleep in their bed, leaving no room for ambiguity to determine what occurred the previous night.

Harding’s hair was loose from her typical bun, and splayed out across the pillows elegantly. Free from any coverage – save for the quilt covers – her bare freckled skin was on display, allowing Rook to see every last dot like the constellations in the night sky.

It felt borderline voyeuristic to look upon her figure any further, and so they hurriedly averted their eyes out of shame.

With the haze of intoxication more or less entirely gone, it was then that reason and memory had returned to Asaaranda’s mind.

Every endlessly pleasurable thing they had done, every press of her lips, every stroke of her fingers, every single touch or affectionate glance shared – all of it came rushing back at once, and it made them sick to their very core.

Of all the stupid things they could have done…

They didn’t want to hurt her. They didn’t want to complicate things. Yet in a single night, they had broken every vow they had had with themselves to keep it all together.

It may have felt worth it in the moment, but already the familiar face of regret had begun to rear its ugly head.

This was all going to fall apart. They would lose her a second time. There wasn’t a damned thing they could do right, and it would be Thedas that would pay the price for their failures.

A repetitive series of knocks sounded at Rook’s door, making them freeze and break free from their melancholy. For a brief moment, Asaaranda contemplated ignoring whoever it was, and allowing the earth to consume them whole instead.

However, the knocks persisted, making it clear that hiding would simply not be an option. And so with all the courage they could muster, Asaaranda quickly made sure they were at least covered and prepared to face reality once more.

When they opened the door, they were surprised to find the Iron Bull on the other side, bearing a grim expression.

“Bull! Uh, sorry, this isn’t really a good time—” they began, knowing with some great degree of certainty that he would be able to tell exactly what they had gotten up to the previous night.

“I know,” he reassured with a grunt and a shake of his head, as he averted his eye from the inside of their room. “But you need to know what’s coming.”

He handed them a folded up letter. In order to not have to panic about his presence any further, they quickly took it in hand and scanned over it.

Quick translated scribbles revealed why he'd been so freaked. The Qun was sending a representative to Skyhold – a Viddathari Ben-Hassrath – to discuss the possibility of an alliance between the Inquisition and the Qun.

“Oh,” Asaaranda uttered softly, as he made his way out. “Uh. Thanks for the warning, Bull.”

Although the Qun had more or less politically fallen apart by the time that they would have been a concern for the Veilguard, Rook was under no illusions that the organisation’s sudden presence here would be an easy ride for them.

They were Vashoth, after all. Their very existence was an affront to the Qun’s philosophies, and a sign of its failures. Maker forbid that any of the Triumvirate gain an interest in Rook from this liaison with the Inquisition.

It was just more unwanted attention, something they just couldn’t seem to avoid.

Rook closed the door shut with a heavy sigh and rested their forehead upon the cool wood with a dull thump. “Maker, can’t I ever get a fucking break?”

The sounds of rustling sheets broke them from their frustrations, startling them into action. Asaaranda flushed at the sound of their bed’s occupant’s guttural groan as she stretched while she awoke.

“Morning, hot stuff,” Lace greeted, her voice thick and heavy from sleep, as she rose to tease them with a gentle giggle. “Who was that?”

Asaaranda cleared their throat, poorly attempting to hide their sudden fluster. “Iron Bull. He… left a message. Something that’ll come up later, I think.”

“Everything alright?” she asked in concern, brow furrowed tightly.

“Fine,” Rook assured tersely. “I’m not worried. Especially not this early in the morning.”

Harding hummed suspiciously for a moment, “Must’ve been important for him to come visit before first bell, surely.”

“…I mean, it’s a little important,” they conceded with a shrug. “Not much I can do right now, though.”

“I guess you’re right,” Lace admitted, as she moved up to sit upright against the headboard. “Breakfast isn’t for another hour at least, it’s that early. And there’s no sense trying to save the world on an empty stomach.”

Rook chuckled gently, turning on their heels and moving away from the door to face her properly. Her tousled hair, her kindest smile, the sight of her bare freckled shoulders and clavicle, all that Harding was just wrapped up in their tan-coloured bedsheets…

It made them weak in the knees. How could they ever regret being the object of desire for such a perfect woman?

As if by instinct alone, Asaaranda found themselves drawn back to Harding’s side. They clambered back into bed beside her, to sit up against the headboard with a sigh. “I… um. I just wanted to say. I don’t… I don’t usually do things like this. Like last night, I mean.”

Lace laughed sweetly, her own blush dusting her cheeks in a warm glow. “Like go to bed with someone after a few drinks?”

“No,” Asaaranda admitted, swallowing roughly. “I’m… I’m not a one night stand kind of person. I hope it didn’t seem like I was just taking… I—I don’t want you to think last night was just about sex for me.”

“It’s okay, Rook,” Harding reassured with a fond look.  “You don’t have to explain yourself. Honestly, I’m not a one night stand kind of person either.”

“Right…” they breathed out nervously. “I didn’t think you would be. Not that it would have mattered if you were!”

Rook wasn’t sure if Harding being interested in them only for sex would’ve been preferable or devastating. Maybe it would’ve been the solution to this jeopardising mistake. Maybe it would’ve just hurt them more to know they couldn’t find love with her. Maybe it would’ve quelled the vicious guilt burning in their throat.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. They had made their choices. If they had the power to fix every little mistake, they would have travelled back home to their own time already.

Back to a reality where Lace Harding was dead and gone.

Lace took Asaaranda’s hand in her own and gently squeezed. “Even after last night, you’re still tense, huh.”

They nodded wearily. “…sorry, I... It’s nothing against you! I just… Not sure there’s a lot that could make me properly relax at the moment.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” Harding teased lightly. “Maybe some other time? It’d be nice to go on a proper date, I think. I wanna see if I can try some other things to get your mind off of work.”

“If you want,” Asaaranda agreed, unable to entertain rejection out of sheer cowardice as their stomach flip-flopped from the promise of ‘other things.’ “When we’ve both got the free time.”

The way she smiled at them made them shiver. Harding tugged them closer to her side, until they were practically buried within her embrace. It was all too easy to lose themselves to her touch, and to fall asleep in her arms again.

Rook needed to do everything they could to fill up their schedule, until they found the courage to end this. It would be kinder to them both to fix their mistakes early, than allow this to continue any further. It had to be.

It had to be.

**

Fortunately, by nature of the Inquisition, Rook found themselves swept up in work soon enough.

Conveniently, the Qunari Ambassador’s arrival perfectly coincided with the Inquisition’s planned journey to Orzammar, and so Sabraen decided that they’d be doing both things at the same time in order to save on resources for travel.

It meant taking a bigger group out to the Coast, so that people would be able to swap in and out as needed. Said group consisted of the Chargers, Blackwall, Cole, Varric, who were all being more or less civil with each other.

The real issue came from Solas and The Iron Bull.

Given the circumstances, Rook honestly thought it would have been wiser to leave Solas back at Skyhold. Both he and Bull had been bickering all the way from the mountains to the coast about their differing views on the Qun.

It had started to grate on everyone after the first hour, and they'd been at it for at least three.

“If your Qun is so wonderful, so fair and perfect, how does it create so many Tal-Vashoth?” Solas prompted, somewhat impatiently. “There are enough of them to marry and have children, like Rook, the very Tal-Vashoth we travel with.”

“Rook’s not Tal-Vashoth, Solas,” The Iron Bull shot back with an irritated huff. “Not that it matters. For every one that turns out fine, like them, dozens go savage.”

“Most of them are ‘savage’ as you say, because your culture taught them nothing else,” the Dread Wolf rebutted. “They know nothing but the Qun. So even as they fight against it, they are guided by its principles.”

“Watch it, elf. You haven't seen the Tal-Vashoth like I have,” Bull warned dangerously. “Try watching a Tal-Vashoth kill a Tamassran and her kids. Then we'll talk.”

“Vhenan, lethallin, please,” Sabraen interjected sternly. “I appreciate that you’re both anxious about this meeting for your own reasons, but this won’t be any easier with your arguing.” 

The Iron Bull looked to them and grunted in disagreement, before he ultimately conceded and fell in line behind them with a cowed expression. “Sorry, Boss.”

Solas, however, wasn’t ready to let it go.

“You must have your own concerns about this alliance, mustn’t you?” Solas prodded, intentionally looking for some kind of support from Rook. “After all, this is your heritage as well. The Iron Bull isn’t the only Qunari present among the Inquisition.”

They clenched their jaw, wincing at the attention suddenly turned towards them.

“I don’t know a damned thing about my so-called heritage, Solas,” Asaaranda sighed, rubbing at the tension between their eyes irritably. “I’m no more Qunari than you are Dalish. All I want is to get through this chat with their Ambassador without ruffling any feathers, that’s what my concerns are.”

This answer did not seem to satisfy Solas, as he scoffed in disbelief, pressing them once again. “What about your parents, surely they—”

“—are human,” Rook snapped. “My parents are human, not that it matters. The Inquisitor is right, you’ve both been bickering for hours. Even if I agreed with either of you, this exchange achieves nothing but working us all up. So, please, leave it alone.”

That had the intended effect, as Solas fell back into what seemed to be a contemplative silence for the rest of the journey out to the Storm Coast.

Bull’s Chargers were already camped out when they arrived – Dalish, Grim, Skinner, Stitches, Rocky, and Krem – in anticipation of the meeting with the Qun’s representative.

“Alright… our Qunari contact should be here to meet us,” Bull breathed out, steeling himself for what was ahead.

“He is,” a voice called out in response. “Good to see you again, Hissrad.”

Emerging from the makeshift tent was a lithe elf with shoulder length brown hair, with pale green eyes and what appeared to be a facsimile of Dalish armour with green and bronze accents.

It was, perhaps, so striking to Rook as they had been half-expecting another carbon copy of the Iron Bull to emerge – not this much shorter, somewhat unassuming man.

“A Viddathari?” they uttered in surprise, allowing some of the tension to slip from their shoulders.

“Gatt!” Bull greeted, with undeniable warmth and something akin to fond exasperation entering his tone. “Last I heard you were still in Seheron!”

“They finally decided I’d calmed down enough to go back out into the world,” Gatt replied with a smile and shake of his head.

“Boss, this is Gatt. We worked together in Seheron,” Bull explained, as Sabraen idled over to his side to greet the other man.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor. Hissrad’s reports say you’re doing good work,” Gatt greeted with a polite nod. He then turned his eye towards Asaaranda and said, “And you must be Rook?”

“Yes,” they confirmed simply. “Thank you for coming, Gatt.”

“Of course,” he replied with a shrug. “After all, the threat of Red Lyrium and these Venatori was too great to ignore. We weren’t prepared to let that go.”

Maker, if only they knew. Asaaranda suppressed a wince, keeping their head down as the Inquisitor stepped forward to handle the rest of the interaction.

“I imagine this shipment we’re supposed to stop marks the beginning of our combined efforts against those two forces,” Sabraen surmised. “We’ve brought the smaller force you asked for. Have you prepared as well?”

“Our Dreadnought’s all ready to go, Inquisitor,” Gatt confirmed. “Out of view and range of the Venatori on the shore. Our job is take out any of their forces on land, so the Dreadnought can come in and take out the smuggler ship.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Sabraen supposed with a click of their tongue. “Where do you want us?”

The plan was simple: two groups attack two separate points – the Chargers would take the lower point closer to the beach, while the Inquisitor, Solas, Rook, Varric, Cole, Blackwall, Bull and Gatt all took the high ground to take out the bulk Venatori encampment on the cliffside.

Each would send up a flare signal to let the Dreadnought know when it was safe to move closer to shore, they’d take out the smuggler ship at range with their fire cannons – solving the issue of a Red Lyrium shipment and a bunch of Venatori all in one go.

It seemed simple, at first glance. Yet Rook still found themselves on edge.

“I have to admit, it’s odd company you keep here, Hissrad,” Gatt commented as they all followed behind him up to the top of the hill. “Mages, elves, a Tevinter Vashoth, and a demon… and that’s not even mentioning your mercenaries.”

“They’re good people,” Bull said with a shrug. “And all of them are here for the right reasons.”

“Is that so?” Gatt hummed with curiosity. He then turned his attention to Asaaranda. “It’s rare to see Saarebas outside of Seheron. I can’t imagine you were trained at a Chantry Circle.”

“Indeed,” Rook answered tersely. “I wasn’t. Qunari don’t get admitted to Chantry Circles.”  

“Right,” Gatt acknowledged with a shrug. “Of course, you’re not really Qunari. Being born in Minrathous and all.”  

It took every ounce of control they had not to visibly tense before him. They knew exactly where he was going to take that line of questioning.

“I can hold my own against Venatori,” Rook assured him, in an attempt to redirect the conversation away from their background. “Regardless of my training, I think you’ll find that aspect sufficient.”

For a moment that appeared to be all, with the matter apparently settled. Until Solas made the mistake of interjecting with his opinion once again.

“Of course, you’re not really Qunari either, Gatt,” Solas noted coolly, although his tone was utterly laced with venom. “What’s the terminology that the Qun uses for you? Viddathari? An interesting way to separate who was born into the culture from those who will never truly belong.”

Asaaranda blinked dumbly at Solas in surprise for his sudden and uncharacteristic rush to their defense. There was, perhaps, some level of plausible deniability given that Solas was likely just leaping at the opportunity to tear into the Qun again.

“Have I done something to offend you?” the Viddathari questioned, looking unaffected by the jab.

Solas simply replied, “You joined the Qun.”

“After they rescued me from slavery,” Gatt pointed out with a disbelieving grimace.

“And put you into something worse,” Solas rebutted firmly. “A slave may always struggle for freedom, but you among the Qun have been taught not to think.”

The Iron Bull grunted lowly, “Solas. Not the time,” and that was all the warning he had left to offer – effectively ending the argument before it could escalate any further. Both Gatt and Bull stalked forward up to the top of the cliff together, surging towards the Venatori camp with not a moment to waste.

“Joining the Qun, after escaping enslavement at the hands of a Magister,” Solas sneered disdainfully, once Gatt and Bull had gotten far enough away not to hear him. “Exchanging one set of chains for another, and a master far more cruel.”

“You know as well as I do that it’s not that simple,” Rook muttered in an aside. “You’re not going to help anyone acting like you know better than everyone else.”

“It seems to me that the man is beyond help, regardless,” Solas pointed out with a sigh. “As all who would willingly follow the Qun are…”

“That isn’t true,” Asaaranda protested sternly. “Nobody is beyond help. Giving up means they’re lost before you’ve ever even tried.”  

The look Solas gave them in response was dismissive, at best – although they could tell that the words themselves had had some kind of impact on him. Before they could truly pause to interrogate exactly why he’d reacted the way they did, the Venatori at the top of the cliff came into view and made themselves a problem.

Between all three mages, two rogues, and two warriors – the attacking Venatori grunts were dispatched of with ease. Nary even a scratch or stubbed toe was suffered in the scuffle.  

Atop the cliff, Gatt knelt to light the flares and signal the Qunari ship into position. Meanwhile, The Chargers had seemingly already done the same thing as they do set up their position further down the coastline.

Asaaranda silently watched as the Dreadnought fired upon the smugglers’ ship with fascination. If anything was certain, it was that the Qun knew how to build a damned good war ship.

The Dreadnought was slower than the smugglers’ ship but it was so strong, especially so close to the shore, that it almost didn’t matter. No wonder the Antaam had taken over Treviso and Ventus so easily, if their naval power alone was that fierce.

A sudden resurgence of Venatori forces on the beach shattered any illusions of quick and easy victory. They were heading straight for the Chargers in an overwhelming number. Even though the Chargers were skilled, even they couldn’t hold their own against this new force.

 “…crap,” Bull muttered, as the realisation hit him just as it hit Rook.

“Hang on, some of us can split up and head over to support the—” The Inquisitor began to propose, only for Gatt to immediately reject the idea.

“No. If they see us splitting off, they’ll send more up to us here and overwhelm the group remaining here. We all need to hold our positions – even if it costs us our lives,” he insisted firmly.

Something about the way Gatt had insisted there was no other solution made them uneasy. Like it was a damned certainty, when he’d presented the task ahead of them as a mostly unknown risk.

Their scouts hadn’t underestimated Venatori numbers. They’d specifically underreported to force them into this exact situation, knowing exactly the kind of decision Bull would make tactically with the Chargers.

The Qunari bastards had done it on purpose, Asaaranda realised. This alliance was never truly about the Inquisition and the Qun joining forces – it was a test to see where The Iron Bull’s loyalties truly lied.

It was an ultimatum. Them or us, The Qun or the Chargers, Qunari or Tal-Vashoth. And it was agonising to watch Bull struggle between those two worlds, when for so long he had tried to walk the line between them.

“They’re my men,” Bull growled. “They stay there, they’re dead.”

“And if they don’t, the Venatori retake it and the Dreadnought is dead,” the Viddathari insisted firmly. “You’ll be throwing away an alliance between the Qun and a foreign power – declaring yourself Tal Vashoth!”

“With all you’ve given the Inquisition, half the Ben-Hassrath think you’ve betrayed us already!” Gatt hissed furiously. “I stood up for you, Hissrad. I told them you would never become Tal-Vashoth.”

Solas glanced over at the forlorn expression on the Iron Bull’s face, and then back to Rook with a sigh. Though he had the sense to finally keep silent, his expression was practically radiating a smug yet mournful declaration of ‘I knew I was right, but I’m not entirely happy about it.’

“Call the retreat, Bull,” Sabraen insisted with a stern yet regretful look, leaving no room for argument.

“Don’t!” Gatt protested. But it was too late. The Iron Bull raised the horn to his lips and sounded the retreat, signalling the Chargers to fall back. Each of them quickly made their way out, leaving the Venatori unopposed and the Dreadnought vulnerable to attack.

All too quickly, they had lost the upper hand as the mages onshore began to make quick work of the ship.

“All these years, and you throw it away. For this. For them,” Gatt growled as he gestured emphatically at both Rook and Sabraen. “I should have known. After your lacking reports on your Tal-Vashoth ally…it should’ve been obvious how you turned your back on your people years ago, Hissrad.”

Asaaranda frowned in confusion. They hadn’t known a damned thing about Bull’s Qun reports on them. Why they would be important enough to bring up now, of all moments, made no sense to them.

Sabraen stood by their lover’s side with a furious glare. “His name is The Iron Bull.”

“I suppose it is,” Gatt replied disdainfully. Without another word, the Viddathari departed, leaving the Inquisition alone with any potential for an alliance with the Qun utterly shattered.

The Dreadnought exploded with a roaring bang in a puff of acrid smelling smoke, leaving the scorched remains to sink underneath the water unceremoniously.

“Shit, Tiny…” Varric remarked under his breath in a low whistle. Apart from that, there were no other words to be spoken amongst the rest of the group. Even Cole, who normally clung onto people’s hurts to try and help through verbalising them, was utterly silent.

The Iron Bull was officially Tal-Vashoth, and there would be no alliance between the Qunari and the Inquisition.

Not that Rook was surprised. There had been no such thing the last time around. This was an aspect of history’s repetition they couldn’t help but be grateful for. It was one more variable that they didn’t need to account for.

Even if it pained them to see just how hurt Bull looked to have lost his place among his people…

“Come on,” Bull prompted mournfully. “We should get back to my boys.”

**

Several hours after The Iron Bull’s dramatic departure from the Qun, the Chargers and the rest of the Inquisitor’s party had set up camp just outside the Blades of Hessarian camp.

Although everyone was among friends, the tension was palpable enough to make the energy less jovial than it otherwise might have been.

Bull was putting on a brave face for the Chargers, shrugging off the concerns of Dalish and Krem alike, but by the time they had all gone to bed – he had sat himself down by the fire with a broken expression.

Varric, Cole, and even Blackwall did what they could to keep him in good spirits, though the wound was still too raw for either of them to have much effect.

Solas was at least wise enough to recognise that he had been too antagonistic to attempt anything resembling comfort, lest it come across as patronising.

Sabraen had offered him what support that they could – making sure he ate, gentle affirmations, their hand over his in a gesture intended to be comforting – but even they couldn’t bring him back from the edge of despair.

Rook wasn’t sure why they thought they could be different. Some of his dearest friends, and even his lover couldn’t get through to him.

At best, Rook was one of his colleagues. At worst, they were an example of his own failings – a Vashoth trying to prove to a new Tal-Vashoth that life outside the Qun wouldn’t be so bad.

“Bull,” Asaaranda greeted hesitantly. “You, uh, mind if we chat?”

The Iron Bull didn’t shift his gaze from the fire, but grunted his acquiescence, allowing them to sit across from him with an uneasy sigh.

“I know now’s probably not a great time to ask,” they began with a wince. “But… you sent reports about me to the Ben-Hassrath?”

“Same as everyone else in the Inquisition,” The Iron Bull huffed somewhat mournfully, still unable to look them in the eye. “Why?”

“Can you tell me what you told them?” Rook requested, frowning. “When Gatt said your reports on me had been lacking, I… it made me wonder what you did say.”

The Iron Bull chuckled dully. “Not much. You’re a Vashoth Mage from Tevinter, never trained at a Circle, formerly enslaved, by who and when unknown. Came through the same Rift as the Inquisitor. That’s all I got around to writing. Red and I couldn’t agree what to send, so they ended up with scraps.”

“Leliana,” Asaaranda mumbled to themselves in realisation. “That’s really all you told them?”

“Does it matter what I told them?” Bull growled gently. “I’m not one of them anymore. If they’re gonna do anything with that information, I couldn’t tell you anyway. Now that I’m fuckin’ Tal-Vashoth.”

His eye narrowed and his jaw tightened. For a man who normally kept such a tight grip on his expression, it was unnerving to see him emote so freely. “I’ve spent years seeing the worst of those bastards, facing them in Seheron, watching the mindless carnage that they’re capable of. And now I’m one of them.”

Although his expression was one of grief, it was hard to say that was all that Rook could see within the Iron Bull in that moment.

It didn’t take a Ben-Hassrath to see that Bull cared deeply about the Chargers. If not for them, Bull would’ve held tightly onto his position within the Qun like a lifeline.

He was beyond grateful they were alive, but the guilt he felt for that gratitude had to be overwhelming.

An impulse came over Rook suddenly, before they could interrogate its source.

“I… I’ve known Tal-Vashoth as well,” Rook admitted hesitantly. “Real Tal-Vashoth, not those born outside like me.”

The other Qunari offered no protests to their anecdote, making a sudden surge of confidence appear within them. They could do this.

“There was a woman, the mother of one of my old friends, she was an Ashkaari? One of the priesthood, I think. She was one of the most well-studied and committed scholars I’ve ever met.”

Bull glanced sideways at them, as Asaaranda continued to explain. “But she was also a mother. She had a child while still studying the scripture, and… it changed things for her. There were parts of the Qun’s scripture that she didn’t agree with, things that she knew were going to impact her child’s life and it scared her.”

The Iron Bull frowned, silently watching them with a barely perceptible hint of intrigue.

“She left. Went to Kont-aar, then moved further south of Rivain to smuggle her child to safety,” Rook added. “Even though she loved being an Ashkaari, it wasn’t more important to her than her child’s life. She became a Tal-Vashoth for them, even though it broke her a bit to give up her life’s work.”

Bull snorted weakly in response, deadpanning at them. “Uh huh.”

“Look, all I’m saying is… this will work out, Bull,” Asaaranda insisted with a sigh. “Those assholes put you in an impossible situation. Just like that Ashkaari. And when it came down to it, I think you made the right choice.”

He let out a heavy sigh of exasperation. “…and if I go savage? What if I end up losing my mind and hurting all the people that I gave up the Qun for?”

“Shokra toh ebra,” Asaaranda told him carefully. “’Through struggle, one finds what they are.’ Of all the lessons she ever tried to impart on the people around her, that was one of the most important. Maker knows you’ve struggled, especially lately. But I’ve got a good feeling that you’ve already found who you are – The Iron Bull.”

Bull flashed them a fond and slightly amused smirk. “Alright, kid. Laying it on a little thick there. Might take a second for it to sink in but… I see what you’re getting at. Thanks.”

When Asaaranda turned to go to bed, The Iron Bull called out once again, “Hey. Just… out of interest – you said ‘was.’ What happened to that Ashkaari?”

The ghosts of ten years into the future returned anew, this time bearing the face of Shathann – who had died to protect her adaari child from harm. The sound of Taash’s agonised and enraged screams, like a war horn thundering through the caldera of Sharksmouth Mountain came to them unbidden.

An unfortunately familiar ache settled into their chest – the grief for a woman who wasn’t even dead yet. Although at that point such grief was a familiar friend, Rook would never truly acclimate to the sensation.

“…that’s a story for another time,” Rook informed him with a maudlin smile, wobbling on their feet uneasily. “It’s been a long day. I don’t wanna trouble you with the details just yet. Just… Try and take it easy, Bull.”

They retreated into their tent, leaving Bull alone to contemplate what they had told him. Normally, a conversation like that would’ve left them tossing and turning for hours. However, the day had been so utterly hectic that exhaustion had settled into every possible nook and cranny.

Not long after laying down, Asaaranda settled into a deep sleep. The dreams that followed them unbidden were those of Shathann and Taash, memories of a time that felt so long ago that it felt unreal.

The words that Shathann had tried to impart upon Taash, the lessons that she had unintentionally given to Rook as well, echoed through their mind like a song.

Shokra toh ebra. Through struggle, one finds what they are.

Maker, they hoped that was true.

Chapter Text

By nature, Solas was a curious man, although it had been a very long time since he could have been called anything as simple as ‘curiosity.’ Upon waking up from Uthenera, he had wanted to learn all that he could of this world.

However, it had proved to be a disappointment. Thousands of years after the fall of Arlathan, after sealing the Evanuris away behind the Veil, it was still as if nothing had changed.

Great and terrible empires ruled the land, the rich and powerful used their position to oppress the common man, all while they lived on in ignorance at the dangers they all truly faced.

Perhaps the worst part was how hollow the world itself felt. The modern day elves, if they could even call themselves that, were a mockery of those they descended from. The vallaslin that the Dalish wore, unaware of how it bound them to the wills of those no better than Tevinter Magisters, was all they had of their history.

Humanity was as vapid and self-absorbed as they had ever been. They were as brutish as they were ignorant, given how much of their society treated magic as if it was something to be contained and locked away rather than a gift to be cherished.

The Dwarves were a shell of themselves. Their separation from the Titans had rendered them unable to dream, and it had been his fault. He could not bare to think of them as true people, lest the guilt eat him whole.

Magic had become a gift only a few could use, when once it had been for all people. The separation between the physical realm and the Fade had been one of his greatest errors, one that felt nigh impossible to reverse.

At least, not without total annihilation. Tearing down the Veil would mean the destruction of this new world, all for the hope of a better one that he would never get to see.

Still, there were those among the Inquisition that made him hesitate. That made him question his assertions that the world was truly broken beyond repair. The Inquisitor, Sabraen Lavellan, a Dalish Elf who wore the markings of Mythal like a badge of honour as the head of a human organisation.

There was Varric Tethras, a surfacer dwarf who challenged his beliefs at every corner, who always seemed to find the right thing to say that made Solas question himself, and whose life seemed incredibly full in spite of all he and his people had lost.

Then there was Rook.

A Vashoth Mage from the Tevinter Imperium, who came through the Fade as the Inquisitor did, yet unmarked by the Anchor.

There was something strangely magnetic about them. A certain kindness that they afforded to others, one he wouldn’t have associated with Qunari at all, that seemed to guide their actions.

Solas had been quietly observing the conversation between Rook and The Iron Bull after the liaison between the Inquisition and the Qun had proven to be a failure. The way in which they approached him with both compassion and wisdom beyond their years… it was impressive.

He had to admit… Rook continued to interest him.

Despite all he had observed from them over the past several months, there were still things about Rook that intrigued him greatly. They seemed at times overly familiar, and others like they were desperate to keep him at arm’s length.

He wasn’t entirely sure why.

And so, to satisfy his ever-growing curiosity, Solas found himself wandering the Fade and into Rook’s dreams once again that night.

When he arrived, the spirits there had taken on the faces of other Qunari – an older woman with silvery hair, and another much younger appearing figure with long silvery braids. The scene appeared to be something akin to a family dinner.

Although, Rook had said their parents were human. Whoever these other Qunari were based upon, they may well have been unrelated Vashoth. He observed the scene with interest, as it began to unfold into a memory.

“What is this dish exactly?” Rook asked with a hum. The elder of the two spirits replied with an explanative hum, “Isskapp. A staple among the Qunari people. I’m surprised you are unfamiliar, Rook.”

“We didn’t have anything like this when I was a kid,” they admitted sheepishly. “Imported ingredients are expensive, so my parents just made do with what they could.”

“A shame,” the woman said with a sigh. “Food is not just culture, it is a lesson in history. A connection to our heritage. You should have at least been taught about it.”

“Tama,” the younger Qunari spirit snapped in warning. “Just drop it, okay?”

“I’m okay, Taash,” Rook insisted, placing a hand on ‘Taash’s’ shoulder placatingly. “I’ve had to do a lot of learning on my own. My parents did their best, I think, but there’s only so much they could do being human Vints, you know?”

The older woman’s face fell into a polite grimace, clearly intent on hiding her discomfort. “Ah. I see.”

“It’s why I asked Taash to invite me over,” Rook added with a smile. “I was hoping if you had any wisdom to share, anything at all that you think might help, then…”

“I’m afraid my area of expertise lies with the First Expedition, and the Adaari, Rook. I’m not sure there is much else I can supply beyond that for your cause,” the woman sighed tentatively.

“Please, you needn’t trouble yourself about that,” Rook assured. “The Inquisitor assures me we’ve got things handled. This is truly just out of personal interest more than anything, ma’am.”

‘The Inquisitor?’ Solas’ interest was piqued. If they were mentioned, this had to be recent. Intrigue running wild, he took another step forward to try and glean more details from the memory.

The green-grey clouds of the Fade began to clear and made way for actual shape and detail to emerge. The walls were that of a simple wood and stone, speaking well to the humble domestic scene. Indeed, the spirits gained more details as well.

The elder of the two Qunari wore dar-saam ropes around her horns, and a simple green tunic dress and a thick leather belt, not unlike the garments worn by Qunari scholars in Par Vollen.

The younger – Taash – wore the dar-saam in a binding style around the arms, but the many adornments of gold at the collar and horns seemed to indicate a traditional Rivaini style.

It was evident to Solas then, that the two were related to one another, and the eldest of them had to be the mother.

She gave them a discerning glance, gently sighed and said, “I do wonder how it is that you can afford diversions such as these, Rook. Is the Blight truly so under control that you’ve the time to come here just to ask after recipes?”

Rook gave her a tense sigh. “We’re in a position where all we can do is wait. With the Grey Wardens more or less deposed, it’s… We’ve got other allies doing their part. For now, the Blight isn’t as big a threat as it seems and we need every opportunity for respite that we can get before we move forward.”

“Besides, I…” they hesitated, and bit their lip as if to hold back a sob. “…. I don’t think I’ll be welcome back home anytime soon. It’d be nice to have something comforting like this after...”

Taash placed a comforting hand on Rook’s back and flashed the other Qunari a pointed look. She softened, offered Rook a hand of her own and began to explain.

“Very well,” she conceded. “Isskapp starts with melons, the green or gold kind depending on the season, and finely diced ginger root—“

Suddenly, the dream seemed to wobble as Rook suddenly perked up as if alerted to his presence. Their head whipped around in a panic, and their eyes fell upon him – as he had not had the forethought to hide from them.

They startled backwards, and in an instant the scene was dismissed as the spirits around them fled in response to Rook’s spike of fear. “Solas!”

“I apologise for the intrusion, Rook,” Solas said with an apologetic shrug. “I keep finding myself naturally drawn to you in dreams. It is the strangest thing. Perhaps we have a connection.” 

There was a brief moment where the colour seemed to drain from their cheeks and the air around them grew colder than ice. Trepidation echoed in every breath they took and reverberated around the Fade in waves.

They were afraid, he realised. But of what?

Rook snorted in what seemed to be amusement, before quipping at him playfully. “Funny way to say you’re falling for me, old man.”

Solas offered a gentle chuckle in response to their joke. “Even if I was, the way I hear it, you are spoken for by our dear Scout Harding?”

“That is none of your business,” they snarled suddenly, harsher than he would have expected for such an otherwise harmless topic.

He blinked at them in genuine surprise. “I… beg your pardon. I intended no offense, Rook.”

Rook’s expression tensed once more, then softened slightly as something akin to guilt appeared in its place. “It… Look, I don't necessarily mind that you're here, you just… a little warning would be nice.”

“Of course,” he replied simply, opting not to take their outburst to heart. “I shall endeavour to avoid startling you in future.”

They sighed tersely. “So… I take it you have a reason to come here and talk?”

“Yes, I do,” Solas confirmed. “I wanted to apologise for how I conducted myself today. I let my own thoughts about the Qun interfere. It was underhanded and unkind of me to attempt to use you as ammunition against Iron Bull like that.”

“...oh.” They cleared their throat roughly, before turning to him with a forced smile. “…thanks, Solas.”

“You seem troubled,” he noted without judgement. “May I ask what’s on your mind?”

As responsive as the Fade was to their emotions, Rook kept an incredibly tight leash on them. Every part of them seemed closed off, even more than normal. It spoke to their discipline and the distance they’d taken pains to create between them both.

He oddly admired that.

“Just the Qun stuff, I guess,” they decided, after an agonisingly long pause that made him doubt whether they would respond at all. “Whole damned thing was a set up. It’s hard not to feel pissed off for Bull, you know.”

Solas offered an understanding nod. “It is… ironic that such a cruelty was also the thing to set him free. I suppose we have the Inquisitor to thank for that.”

“And the Chargers,” Rook pointed out. “As much as he and Sabraen have gotten close, those guys are his family.”

“Of course,” he agreed easily. “But I suspect it is not just him you are upset for, yes?”

“Well, no,” they conceded with a grimace. “I’m not exactly thrilled that their organisation knows about me.”

“Did you expect otherwise?” Solas questioned with a hum. “Being the second-in-command of the Inquisition…”

“I meant I’m not thrilled about the Qun knowing me. Not who I am to the Inquisition, that’s to be expected. Encouraged, even,” Rook sighed roughly. “It’s unnerving being known to the Ben-Hassrath, beyond what Bull knows. It means they’re worried about me.”

“I imagine this is the first time in history one of your people has been elevated to such status,” he proposed with a shrug. “It is only natural that they fear you. You represent the loss of their power, the shattering of their illusion of control.”

Their eyes seemed to glow with the way they stared through him with a deep frown. “…you’re about to say something about how that reflects upon the rest of my people now, aren’t you?”

He hadn’t, but it made sense that they thought he would. He had taken on a semi-advisory role to the Inquisitor – and by extension Rook, though they sought his advice far less than Sabraen – and so it was only natural.

Solas offered them yet another gentle smile, in order to play along with their assertion. “It seems I have become predictable. But yes. How you act will reflect upon all of the Qunari people – Tal-Vashoth and Vashoth alike.”

Rook sighed wearily. “Yeah, I know. Wish I would’ve realised that when I volunteered to stick around.”

“It is noble of you, nonetheless,” Solas insisted. “A lesser person would have turned tail and ran home when they had the opportunity.”

“No way I could have, even if I wanted to,” they scoffed. “Don’t know if I’ll ever make it back home like this.”

“If it is any consolation… you are an exemplary individual, a shining beacon amongst your people,” Solas complimented honestly. “What you have achieved here is something to behold.”

They got an odd look on their face, as they scrunched their nose at him in what looked to be displeasure. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, Qunari have the reputation for being savage creatures, bound only to sense by the rigid bindings of the Qun,” he explained. “I admit, I thought to expect that much when we first met. But you have managed to surprise me, as well as impress me. How you helped Iron Bull this evening proved that.”

“So… you’re basically trying to tell me that I’m ‘one of the good ones?’” Rook frowned at him deeply. “If not for the fact that I helped encourage Bull to see the good parts of being Tal-Vashoth, you’d view me as just another ‘unrestrained beast,’ am I hearing that right?”

A sizeable curl of frustration settled in his chest. Solas did not enjoy being misconstrued.

“What I mean to say is… you and the Inquisitor are both unique,” he began, stamping down any disquiet in his tone immediately. “Not only in the sense that you both emerged from the Temple of Sacred Ashes alive, but also in your dispositions, your morals – your spirits.”

When their frown did not dissipate, he continued with renewed determination. “It is a rare quality that you both possess. One that I thought did not exist outside of the Fade, one that I briefly thought existed in you both only on account of your experiences there.”

“After speaking with the both of you, I see how wrong I was,” Solas admitted. “Though I have no doubt the Fade may have played a role in where you are today, you are an individual of great merit, independent of such influence.”

Much to his chagrin, Rook appeared to become even more startled by the compliment. “…okay you’re just pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

“I assure you, I am not,” he replied simply.  

Rook narrowed their eyes at him in suspicion, before settling on absolute bafflement and fluster. It was a peculiar, yet deeply fascinating expression to receive in return for earnest praise.

“Okay, now I’m definitely sure this is a misguided attempt to flirt with me,” they joked in yet another bid to poorly hide their discomfort. “I’m, uh, not into men. Or the whole ‘add a third’ thing. Just to be clear on that front.”

Solas shook his head with an amused sigh. “Have a good night, Rook. We should speak again later in the waking world.”

When he retreated from Rook’s dream and back into the realms of his own, an almost sinister fit of laughter bubbled up in his gut.

It had been far too long since he had indulged in simple curiosity for curiosity’s sake, and teasing for the sake of teasing. Although he had intended just to poke and prod to see what happened, it had wielded much more pleasing results.

After all, he still maintained the goal to learn just who exactly Rook truly was.

Their dream had mentioned the Inquisitor, so that memory he’d witnessed was undoubtedly recent. The name ‘Taash’ had been the only identifier of the two other figures, but still… that was more than he’d had before.

With any luck, he’d get all he needed on them from dreams alone. Otherwise, he had other means of finding information.

Though that could wait until morning.

**

The first thought in Asaaranda’s mind when they awoke the following morning was that of utter bafflement. The second thought echoed a similar sentiment, tinged with the poison of fear.

Far too many things had happened in their sleep for their own comfort. The compliments, the apologies, the teasing, the absolutely fucking everything that had occurred after Solas had just wandered into their mind like he belonged there.

The image had been striking. For the brief second when they had initially spotted him, Rook could have sworn his form was that of a black wolf’s with half a dozen glowing eyes, staring at them like prey.

They were lucky that their dream hadn’t been too revealing. Maker forbid that he’d come in to witness something like the fall of Weisshaupt, or their direct confrontations with Elgar’nan or Ghilan’nain.

Still, it had left them unnerved beyond belief.

An actual apology from Solas felt unprecedented. Frankly, it would've felt like a damned good start on his path to redemption if Rook didn't fear how it seemed to have come out of nowhere.

But that hadn’t been the worst part.

‘A connection.’ He said they had a fucking connection.

Did the Blood Magic connection somehow survive into the past? Could even time itself not detract from it? The thought had crossed their mind at some point, but it had been so long that they were sure it wouldn’t have been an issue.

It was awful timing. They were already anxious enough about heading into the Deep Roads without having to wonder if Solas had free access to their mind again.

Smuggling lyrium back to Skyhold without anyone noticing was a daunting enough task. The Arulin’Holm would require a significant vein of the stuff to match Solas’ own dagger.

Transporting the amount needed wasn’t the main issue, rather it was the toxicity. Just a small piece of the unprocessed stuff would be enough to make one incredibly ill, and prolonged exposure could prove deadly.

It was even worse for them as a mage. When they had first kissed Harding, back when she had lyrium uncontrollably rushing through her veins, their magic had reacted wildly and gotten out of control.

Not to mention all the symptoms they’d suffered afterwards for weeks.

They needed to time it all correctly – make sure whatever they found could be brought back to the surface almost immediately, and get it back to Skyhold before it affected them too much.

Easier said than done.

Soon after Rook emerged from their tent and readied themselves for the day, the rest of the party got themselves together in a similar fashion and then headed out to the Storm Coast entrance into Orzammar.

The lift had been commissioned by the Inquisition on behalf of Orzammar, meant to carry them down the fissure and into the ravine leading further into the Deep Roads.

It wasn’t exactly like the grand entrance halls filled with statues of Paragons that Rook had grown up hearing about, but it was still an impressive feat of engineering.

Waiting for them all at the entrance was none other than Scout Harding herself. It was routine, expected. Yet Asaaranda suddenly found themselves squirming uncomfortably at the sight of her.

How the hell were they supposed to act normal?

“Inquisitor Lavellan!” Harding called out as they all approached. “Good to see you. We’re just about ready for you, Rex just needs to run through a few final things.”

“Glad to hear it, Harding,” Sabraen replied warmly, before heading off to meet with the Requisition Officer promptly. “Our one consolation about going underground is getting out of this rain.”

As the Inquisitor busied themselves with more work, the Scout slipped away and found herself at the back of the group where Rook was lingering anxiously.

“You look stressed,” Harding murmured in an aside. “Everything alright?”

“Slept like shit,” Asaaranda admitted cautiously, feeling their stomach flutter at her concern. “It, uh… Been having some bad dreams. Nerves about going into the Deep Roads, I think. I don’t know. Could be haunted by demons trying to get into my head.”

Lace flashed them an affectionate yet scolding look in return. “We brought a couple mages out here to help with construction. I could ask around for something for something that might help, if you like.”

“You don’t need to go out of your way,” Asaaranda murmured bashfully. “It’s probably fine.

“Oh, please,” Harding scoffed dismissively. “It’s not going out of my way, really. Besides, you’re worth it.”

Their throat thickened with emotion, tightening as they swallowed nervously. “Listen, Lace, we should—”

“Hey, Rook!” Varric called out from the centre of the lift. “You coming or what?”

“It’s okay,” she assured. “We’ll catch up later. Promise.”

Rook nodded numbly, unable to reignite the brief spark of courage they’d had. They scurried over to the lift, and squeezed in amongst Varric, Bull, and Blackwall. They needed to pull themselves together.

Other more important things were at stake.

“Not sure why Boss insisted on bringing both Qunari in the Inquisition on a mission down to the Deep Roads,” Iron Bull grumbled light-heartedly.

“Gotta say I agree, it’s not like they make these tunnels suitable for horns,” Varric added, as they began their descent downwards. “Not to mention how many people we’re bringing down here. Why’d we need such a big group anyway?”

“Well, Sabraen brought Bull and Solas because there’s no way they wouldn’t,” Asaaranda murmured with a roll of their eyes. “Cole’s here cause we needed another rogue to rotate in, you’re here for your jovial anecdotes. And I’m here cause I insisted.”

“Good point,” Varric sighed. “At least we’ve got you, Hero. I’m in no mood to be in the Deep Roads without a Grey Warden.”

Blackwall had a steely look in his eye as he looked over the edge of the lift and grumbled gently. “Always wondered if I’d die down here…”

“You’re not dead yet,” Varric assured, though it seemed to be more for himself than for Blackwall.

Nobody was exactly thrilled to be there. Asaaranda would’ve felt guilty for their role in getting everyone here if not for the fact they had no other choice. Still. Dying down in the Deep Roads…

It was a grim prospect. They weren’t unaware of the fact that coming down here was an immense risk, but perhaps there was some undeserved confidence on their part.

Aside from all they’d done in the Veilguard, they’d spent more time underground than the average person anyway.

Some of the Tunnels under Minrathous led into Deep Roads, but the Shadow Dragons had actual former Wardens among their ranks to help avoid Darkspawn. It had made navigation much easier, which was probably the intended result here as well.

As for Blackwall… well, the Inquisition had to find out he wasn’t a real Grey Warden eventually, this had to be as good a way as any.

They just had to hope it didn’t cost any of them their lives.

When they reached the bottom of the lift and stepped out onto the ground below, a woman lingered in the shadows, out of the line of the sun streaming in.

“Atrast vala,” she greeted with a slight bow. “You must be Rook. I beg your pardon, but is the Inquisitor going to be joining us?”

“They’re on their way,” Rook assured. “Just bringing down gear and taking final checks with our Scouts. I assume you’re Shaper Valta?”

“Yes, it’s good to meet you,” the woman confirmed with a nod. “King Bhelen sends his regards, and regrets that he was unable to tear himself away from his duties to come meet the Inquisition personally.”

“Ah, right, of course,” Asaaranda responded with their own nod in turn. “No hard feelings. We’ve all got things going on. Like these Earthquakes. Got anymore insight about those?”

“I’m afraid the situation has only worsened since we initially contacted you,” Valta explained with a heavy sigh. “The most recent quakes collapsed some of our biggest mines and shattered a seal that kept the Darkspawn at bay. The Legion of the Dead is doing what they can but so far they’ve proven unsuccessful. We can’t afford to lose any more Lyrium sites.”

“Indeed,” Asaaranda agreed with a diplomatic look. “Well, we’re here to do anything we can to help you and the Legion out, as I’m sure the Inquisitor will tell you.”

Valta gave them a stiff but approving look in turn. “Good to hear it. When they arrive, we’ll head towards the Legion camp together and get to work.”

She then turned her attentions back to what she had been doing before, leaving Rook and the others to linger by the lift in anticipation of Inquisitor Lavellan’s arrival.

Frankly, Rook wasn’t sure if the tension was coming from her or themselves. It was odd to look into the eye of someone they knew would become… well. A rock, or whatever the Oracle actually was.

It was even weirder being in the Deep Roads again. They could’ve sworn everything just felt… stronger. Like there was a distant pulse to the Earth they’d never heard before, but now they couldn’t shut it out.

Maker willing, they were just feeling off balance from the quakes. Asaaranda didn’t particularly care to interrogate the alternatives, nor explain anymore oddities.

All they needed was the lyrium. They had to hope it would be as simple as that.

Chapter Text

Of course, how could Rook forget that it was never as simple as that.

Within the Deep Roads themselves was more than just the Legion of the Dead. Dozens of Darkspawn, pouring from a newly exposed tunnel in droves, with the legion under pressure.

Genlocks, Hurlocks, and emissaries alike. And not to mention the damned ogre.

“In case you were wondering, I hate the Deep Roads!” Varric called, as he retreated to the back and aimed Bianca right between the eyes of the beast.

It wasn’t Rook’s first Ogre, unfortunately, but the bastards never got any easier to deal with. As it raised its fist to attack, Rook screeched and hopped out of the way. “I don’t think anyone of us disagrees with you, Varric!”

“Stay focused, you two, come on!” Sabraen barked, as they focused their attention on disorienting the creature while the warriors attacked. “Cole, Blackwall, arm the charges! Solas, Varric, Rook – cover them!”

Even with the substantial support and numbers of three mages, three warriors, and two rogues, the ogre did not go down easily. It took almost everything they had to bring it to its knees, and for the three mages to collectively deal the final blow in an utterly explosive manner. 

When the charges went off, the exposed tunnel collapsed in on itself at last – sealing the vile creatures out of Orzammar in a glorious boom.

Darkspawn blood splattered across the ground, filling Asaaranda’s nose with its familiar suffocating and acrid scent. Their stomach lurched in revile. This was just a taste of what was to come, and already they had started to regret their decision to come here.

“Fen’Harel ma halam,” the Inquisitor hissed under their breath at the ogre’s corpse, as they rolled out their aching muscles. “Everyone alive?”

“Barely,” Varric groaned in complaint. “Is everyone really sure we wanna do this?”

“We’ve already paid for the lift, Varric,” they replied, faux-chastising. “You’ll survive a few Darkspawn.”

“All good, Inquisitor,” Blackwall confirmed with a salute, wiping the sweat, dust, and blood from his brow. “Let’s show the bastards what-for.”

“If any of you are injured, take your potions now,” Sabraen ordered easily. “We’ve got more supplies coming in from the surface, no need to be conservative here.”

Asaaranda had gotten lucky, and managed to avoid any serious enough hits to warrant taking any potions. With a brief moment to breathe, they sat back against the nearest wall to get their thoughts in order.

They felt too sick to their stomach from nerves to even contemplate idle conversation. If they got caught smuggling lyrium, the Inquisitor at the very least would demand an explanation. At worst, it could lead to an investigation of their other activities.

Then, if what the council found proved to appear duplicitous, then they were even more at risk of losing out a valuable position as the Inquisitor’s second in command. It would mean losing resources, losing allies, losing any semblance of control.

Not to mention, the risk of being discovered by their real enemy.

If Solas found out now, they could damn well lose the Lighthouse, and any advantage that foresight offered that they hoped to grasp.

But this was high-risk, high-reward for a reason.

The dagger was the only option, just as Imshael had been the only option, just as Alexius had been the only option.

They’d made it this far. They had to keep at it.

Not long into their brooding session, the Inquisitor returned with Valta and one of the Legion’s finely armoured warriors.

“Rook, this is Lieutenant Renn, a commander of the Legion of the Dead,” Sabraen introduced with a nod. “Lieutenant, this is Rook – the Inquisition’s second in command. They’re the reason we came to help out.”

Renn raised an eyebrow at them. “Charmed. It’s not often we get Qunari down here,” he said, before shaking their hand in greeting. “Not that I’m not grateful. Just wondering why you specifically are interested in us.”

“Lyrium trade is important,” Asaaranda replied with a shrug. “Helping you helps us.”

He gave a terse hum in reply. “Well, whatever your motivations, we’re glad to have it. These quakes aren’t good for anyone.”

“Tough crowd,” Varric commiserated, as he sidled over to them with a pitying grimace. “But I wouldn’t take it personally, Rook. Grisly’s people are all like that.”

Asaaranda snorted lightly. “I wouldn’t be cheery after dealing with Darkspawn all day either.”

“Bodes well for going down into the Deep Roads, doesn’t it?” he chuckled stiffly. “Maker, I am not looking forward to this.”

“You’ll be fine, Varric,” Sabraen assured. “With any luck, Renn and Valta will help us navigate without any trouble.”

“There will probably be a little trouble,” Valta admitted with a hum. “We’re looking to discover the Titans after all.”

Renn huffed lightly. “Yeah, based on one bit of text that could have been written by anyone. We don’t even know if it’s real.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say ‘Titan?’” Varric grumbled in disbelief. “We’re chasing down earthquakes in the Deep Roads based on a text about imaginary giants now?”

“They aren’t imaginary,” Valta insisted. “These earthquakes are different, there’s an actual intelligence behind them. What else if not for a Titan?”

“I don’t know,” he groaned. “Nugs maybe? Darkspawn? Nugs and Darkspawn? That’s about the only things down here that aren’t made up fairy stories. Hell, even the Nug King tale makes better speculative fiction.”

“I hate to disagree, Varric,” Rook interrupted with a gentle cough. “There is actual precedent for the existence of Titans.”

Varric turned to them with a look of chagrin, as the others’ expressions – barring Cole and Solas – also made their interest plain. “You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not,” they replied, feeling a rising sense of tension in their gut as they spoke. “It’s not common knowledge, obviously. But evidence of their existence has been around in the Fade since the time of the Ancient Elves. Right, Solas?”

The colour seemed to subtly drain from his cheeks as the attention turned to him. He blinked slowly like startled prey. “Indeed,” he uttered roughly. “Though it is difficult to say what has happened in the years since. Little tangible evidence remains in the Fade.”

“Oh, little to be sure,” Rook agreed. “But what is there is fascinating, don’t you agree?”

“Always the Fade with you two,” Blackwall grumbled, giving Solas an unintended reprieve. “We should be focusing on the real issues we can understand – dealing with the Darkspawn.”

“Thank you, Warden,” Renn agreed with a sigh, as he rubbed a stress point between his eyes.

“Still, it would be a fascinating discovery if true,” Sabraen noted with glimmer of mischief and wonder in their eye. “The political implications for Orzammar alone…”

“Exactly,” Valta emphasised eagerly. “It is worth investigating, at the very least.”

“Right,” the Inquisitor affirmed. “We’ll follow your lead. Wherever the source of these quakes is, we’ll find it. What we do from there depends on what we find – whether that’s Titans or Nugs.”

Fortunately, it would be a while before either of those things became an issue. The first task before the beginning of their Descent into the Deep Roads was the establishment of a base camp at the newly sealed Tunnel entrances.

As Asaaranda quietly tended to their own duties, the watchful eye of a certain rogue followed their path intently, waiting for a moment to get them alone.

Then, when he saw his opportunity – he took it.

“You were antagonising him,” Cole noted quietly in an aside to Rook. “You wanted to make him upset.”

“Who, Solas? It’s just a bit of fun at his expense, Cole,” Asaaranda defended with a playful shrug. “Besides, he owes me one for showing up in my dreams uninvited. Twice.”

Among other things, of course.

“I thought you wanted to help him,” he whispered, staring at them in a way that was utterly laced with hurt. “To show him how he could be better. How he could be different, how to make it stop hurting – so that he doesn’t want to hurt anyone else.”

Rook sighed roughly, rubbing at their tense jaw with a grimace.

 “I… do,” they said, though unsure if they were truly lying or not. “I do. Want to help, I mean. But he doesn’t make it easy, Cole, you know that.”

The spirit went so quiet for so long that Rook thought he’d given up. Then without warning, “Varric is worried about you,” Cole blurted out - sudden and insistently. “Everyone is worried about you.”

His words finally gave Rook pause. “…what?”

“Candle burning at both ends, the smell of brimstone and ash like Kirkwall,” Cole muttered as the words tumbled from him in rapid succession. “Fractures under the skin, exhaustion visible on their every expression. He knows they’re going to crack, it’s just a matter of when.”

They frowned deeply, as they tried to pull themselves together enough to process everything without flinching. Still, they found themselves at a loss. It was impossible to ignore what he had laid in front of them.

After all, he wasn’t wrong. They had been falling apart for weeks.

“…what would you have me do, Cole?” Rook asked, throat tight and thick with the bile rising from their gut. “I don’t have any other choices here.”

“Tell Varric the truth,” Cole replied insistently, with a pained expression. “He wants to help.”

“Not until I have actual proof of the threat we face,” Asaaranda reminded. “Which I can’t get without the Lighthouse. I need this lyrium, Cole. I know what’s at stake if I fail. I won’t make the same mistakes as last time, I need to do it right this time.”

“Then what?” he implored. “It won’t be like before. Everything, everyone will be different. Taste of paella and gooseberry pie, Isskapp at the fireside – gone, gone, dead, gone – nobody remembers, nowhere to return to, even she doesn’t feel quite right.”

Rook flinched as though a bolt had run straight through their heart. With a deeply wounded breath, they murmured. “Cole. Please, no more. I know, okay? Right now, all I need to do is get the last piece for this damn dagger. We can discuss what comes next at the Lighthouse.”

“Rook—” he began, but they cut him off firmly. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll leave Solas alone. You’re right, antagonising him doesn’t fix anything.”

Then, they surged away from him, in hopes of making it plain that they had made up their mind on the matter.

Still, it didn’t stop them feeling stripped raw and vulnerable from their conversation. Cole’s warning - ‘It won’t be like before’ – made no sense. That was the point, wasn’t it?

The point was to make sure things weren’t the same as their own time. To create a world where every mistake they had made would be undone, where Solas could be dealt with easily, and the Evanuris were but distant memories hidden behind the Veil.

And yet… with the thought in their head, it occurred to them that things weren’t turning all that different. A couple of spirits, some rogues, magical experts… was that not the entirety of the Veilguard in their own time?

Cole to replace Lucanis, Imshael to replace Spite, Merrill to replace Bellara, Briala to replace Neve, Alexius to replace Emmrich… All they were missing was a Grey Warden and a Dragon Hunter.

Maker, maybe he was right. Maybe they had just created another version of the Veilguard to try and fill their ever persistent aching void of loss.

However fair the assessment was… they couldn’t afford to dwell on it. Not while there were Darkspawn around every corner. Not while their focus was on finding enough lyrium to take back to Skyhold.

**

The main problem with the Deep Roads, aside from the obvious, was that the tunnels were incredibly deep under the damned ground. Which left a lot of time for walking and conversation to fill the inevitable silences between Darkspawn and Deepstalker encounters.

“Something's funny about you,” The Iron Bull noted to Blackwall,.

“Oh?” Blackwall replied, absentmindedly, though his jaw suddenly tightened.

“Yeah. You talk about Grey Wardens and honour and sacrifice and griffons, but you're still not convinced,” the Qunari remarked, though not accusingly, as if he was just simply noticing the weather.

“Not convinced?” Blackwall guffawed, seemingly to play dumb.

“Yes, you know what I mean,” Bull shot back, looking at him pointedly.  

The ‘Warden’, as subtly threateningly as he could manage, grumbled, “And you know this because?”

“I'm a people person,” Bull replied with a knowing grunt.

Subtly as they could manage, Asaaranda cleared their throat free of the rising phlegm that formed of all the tension. Although they couldn’t be sure anyone else had come to the same realisation as them, it was glaringly obvious what their conversation was really about.

The Iron Bull had figured Blackwall out, and was now all but announcing his revelation to the rest of the group – or at least anyone who cared enough to read between the lines.

“Well, I mean, the Grey Wardens aren’t exactly free of problems,” Rook interjected with a slight light giggle, hoping to diffuse the tension a little bit. “Whatever Blackwall’s feelings about the order, it’s his impact that matters, right? Helping people here and now, etcetera.”

Blackwall’s expression became even more stony in that moment, eyes-flickering away from Rook’s and down to the floor. “Right.”

Perhaps in an attempt to assist Rook’s attempt to redirect conversation, Renn inquired, “You know many Grey Wardens, Rook?”

Swallowing harshly, they nodded and admitted, “Knew.” They had brought this conversation topic on themselves, so there was no sense in not being at least partially honest. “I’ve heard my fair share about the order, good and bad.”

“Of course,” he replied with a grim nod. “…and my condolences. It never gets easier, losing people. Even those whose lives are already lost to their cause.”

Asaaranda gave a half-hearted shrug. “I imagine you in the Legion know that better than most of us.”

“Indeed,” Renn agreed with his own slightly pained shrug. “It’s not all bad. We get to die with honour. That’s more than most casteless and disgraced get.”

His gaze grew distant, in a thousand yard stare that seemed as far reaching as the roads themselves. This was a man no stranger to grief, and even in his moments with a stiff upper lip, the look of it on him was striking.

“I am sorry about Bernat, Renn,” Valta interjected, placing a hand on his back. “You served with him a long time.”

“He returned to the Stone. He’ll be honoured for it,” Renn murmured with a wince. “We should all be so lucky.”

There were many among the Legion who did not survive the Darkspawn attacks from the tunnels that had opened up. In combination with the Earthquakes, their losses were even more grim.

It suddenly occurred to Rook that they hadn’t even considered the position of the Legion of the Dead during their own time. Given how different the Sixth Blight acted from the others, Rook wondered if all of them had simply perished in the attacks.

It wouldn’t have surprised them to learn that the sacrifices of people like Renn had been for naught. Even if they returned to the Stone in honour, they could not have known the true weight of their loss.

Maker, Rook felt sick to their stomach. They could only hope that they managed to track down a lyrium vein soon.

Otherwise, they’d begin to feel like this whole expedition was a waste of time.

By the time the Inquisition reached the end of Heidrun Thaig, it became abundantly clear that Rook’s quest to find lyrium would be more difficult than anticipated.

They hadn’t seen even the most pitiful vein of the stuff, no doubt thanks to the fact that any around the place had to have been picked clean by the mining caste or the Darkspawn.

Fighting Darkspawn was not their favourite activity by any means, but searching for the bizarre gears they needed to progress even further into the depths of the Deep Roads somehow was even worse.

That wasn’t to say it wasn’t absolutely incredible. There was so much sophisticated architecture, seemingly unmaintained, and all of it was likely older than Arlathan itself. If Rook had more time to appreciate the historical implications and the many beautiful aspects of it, they would have.

Alas, there wasn’t much room for such a thing by the time they had to call it a day.

Sabraen elected to have everyone pull back to camp, for a variety of reasons. There was plenty of other work for the Inquisition to do in the explored regions – sealing tunnels, create structures for ease of navigation, recover some resources, and so on.

Sabraen was the one who needed to have the most input on those things, and thus back to camp it was.

For everyone else, it meant rest before the inevitable descent even further into the depths. The tunnels beyond the Warrens were unexplored, naturally, which made things even more dangerous.

But Rook was antsy. Every second that they lingered was another wasted.

And so, when the opportunity presented itself to get ahead of the game, they took it.

“…don’t mind at all, Inquisitor,” Harding confirmed, proudly nodding her head. “I can head down there to scout out as much as possible. I would rather know what you’re in for. We kinda need ya.”

“Only if you’re sure, Harding,” Sabraen murmured tersely. “It’s a massive risk. We have no idea what you’ll run into down there.”

“I can go with her,” Asaaranda interjected, as casually as they could muster. “Safety in numbers, right?”

Lace’s eyes subtly brightened as they approached. “…I’ve got no problem with that,” she admitted sheepishly, before clearing her throat and continuing with determination. “The rest of our scouts are busy on construction supervision, right Inquisitor?”

Sabraen gave a hesitant hum. “True enough… Still, is it safe with just the two of you?”

“We’ll be able to move much faster like this,” Harding assured. “And I trust Rook to have my back.”

Their heart leapt into their throat, though whether it was fluster or guilt, Rook couldn’t say.

The Inquisitor conceded with a sigh. “Alright. But please be careful, both of you. We can’t afford to lose you. If you’re not back by morning, we’ll send Renn and Blackwall to come find you.”

“You’ve got it, Inquisitor,” Harding agreed, saluting proudly. Promptly, the two of them gathered the few supplies they needed for navigating the roads together, and then onto the mysterious lift they went.

“Thanks for coming along, Rook. I was hoping to catch up with you,” Lace admitted. “Even if scouting the Deep Roads together isn’t the most romantic thing in the world.”

Asaaranda snorted lightly, hoping to diffuse their own anxiety. “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else right now, trust me.”

Harding chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Maker, you’re ridiculous.”

“No, really, caverns beneath the ruins of a Thaig are exactly where I imagined us going,” Rook joked absentmindedly, as their eyes scanned every corner frantically. “Darkspawn and dinner, perfect outing.”

“So we’re doing dinner after this?” she inquired with a hum. “Can’t say it’s the worst date I’ve ever been on.”

The rest of their conversations occurred in much the same manner, light-hearted and teasing, but never quite venturing towards the proverbial elephant in the room.

If Harding noticed Rook’s avoidance of the looming ‘what are we’ discussion, she didn’t make it known. Nonetheless, that didn’t mean that they avoided all of the difficult conversations at hand.

“Rook,” Harding began, hesitantly. “Tell me honestly. Are you okay?”

Asaaranda subtly flinched, and clenched their teeth as to not let their instinctive whimper escape. First Varric had noticed, and now Harding. Was the weight of the world really that obvious?

“…why do you ask?” they replied, cautiously.

“I know you said earlier that you were just feeling nerves about going into the Deep Roads,” she prefaced with a concerned cock of her brow. “But considering the fact you volunteered to come down here with me, I’m starting to believe those dark circles under your eyes are for another reason.”

Rook scrambled to respond, only for the sounds of the lift screeching to a halt to interrupt them. They had arrived to the caverns which were caked in a pervasive inky darkness that meant even seeing a foot in front of them was an impossibility.

Worse yet, the thundering sounds of hurried footsteps followed suit – making it plain they weren’t alone down there.

Asaaranda froze in their stead, preparing to reach for the staff on their back.

“Careful,” Harding hissed, as she pulled them backwards into the shadows. “Too heavy to be deepstalkers. Someone’s down here.”

There was no scent from Darkspawn in the air, Rook realised. It had to be the Sha-Brytol.

“Doesn’t smell like Darkspawn, at least,” they noted, in as soft a whisper they could manage. “Might be Carta. Think we can take them?”

Lace shook her head vehemently. “Not a chance. There’s too many of them for just the two of us to take on our own, especially in the dark. We need to get out of the open.”

In a hurried but silent pace, the two of them crept through the shadows to try and stay as hidden as they could. Harding navigated the darkness with expert precision, even assisting Rook in staying out of the line of sight of the Sha-Brytol.

Even in near-total darkness, avoiding unseen enemies, her ability to navigate the unknown caverns was incredible. The only source of light in the entire cavern was the glowing lyrium protruding from the Sha-Brytol’s armour and weapons.

It was in stark contrast to the earlier tunnels of the Deep Roads, where they thought they might never track down any lyrium at all.

Upon turning the corner, Rook’s eyes fell upon their first sign of success – dozens of blue veins nestled amongst the stalactites on the ceiling.

And then, when they emerged from the tunnels out into the larger cavern, the abundance of it all became apparent. Every inch of stone was utterly laden with lyrium, leaving even the most unremarkable of rocks illuminated by its glow.

Rook’s prayers had been answered. They could make thousands of daggers from these rocks if they desired.

Once, in what felt like a lifetime ago, Varric had described the Inquisition’s trip to these Forgotten Caverns as just another extraordinary undertaking that Sabraen Lavellan achieved as the Inquisitor.

Sure, ‘a cave filled with enough lyrium to make the Merchant’s Guild’s collective mouth water’ was one way to put it, but such descriptions of these caverns didn’t do them justice.

Lyrium was Titan’s blood. To see this much in one place reminded them of the fact that they were inside of a damned Titan. The dagger they made would be just a smaller stolen part of this absolutely gigantic whole.

“…Rook?” Harding broke through the silence in a rough whisper. “You still with us?”

“Sorry, I just… this is incredible,” Asaaranda guffawed, hiding their guilt with awe. “How can there be so much down here? It looks like it goes on forever.”

Harding shook her head in disbelief, as she marked down all she could on her map for reference. “It probably does. Makes our job a bit more complicated.”

“Think we should split up to cover more ground?” they offered, seeing the opportunity at hand to get what they needed. “If we’re careful, we’ll be able to get this done and make it back to camp much faster.”

Lace hesitated and narrowed her eyes at them. For a beat, she seemed to try and formulate something to say, but eventually it fluttered away from her in a breath. “…if you’re sure.”

She gestured towards the archlike structure of rocks to the west. “That’s as far as we go, alright? I don’t feel like losing you down here.”

“I’ll be fine,” Asaaranda reassured gently, struck with renewed guilt. “And I’m not losing you either.”

The ‘not again’ went unspoken. Whether Lace heard it in the wobble of their tone, Rook couldn’t be sure. Yet, the sentiment clearly stuck with her, as she reached forward to take their hand in hers and squeeze it determinedly.

Reluctantly, the two parted, heading in opposite directions.

Frankly, Asaaranda was spoilt for choice in terms of lyrium. Every corner they turned to had even more veins than the last. It didn’t take long to find the perfect one.

It was almost too damn easy. Rook retrieved a machete from within their bag and knelt down to repeatedly cut into the lyrium vein.

“Come on, come on,” they murmured under their breath, as they put everything they could into their movements.

With a remarkably wet snap, the vein broke loose from the ground. The heady raw magic that wafted through the air was enough to make Asaaranda’s eyes water and their head to swim with dizziness.

They shuddered, exhaling shakily as they held their sought after prize in hand. People often said direct exposure to raw lyrium like this was enough to kill a mage outright.

While Rook definitely felt woozy and their heart was racing, they were fairly sure they weren’t dead. Its glow was blinding, and their blood seemed to boil every second that they stared at it, but still – they were alive.

As they rose to their feet, dizzily, the sudden subtle rumble of the ground had them freezing. The magic in the air surged in an undeniably electric wave, and then the rocky floor began quake like the roaring of thunder.

Each and every quake incrementally ramped up in intensity, until the ground shook so fiercely that Rook could have sworn that it would split open and swallow them whole.

Breathlessly, Asaaranda quickly tucked the damned lyrium into their pack and rushed back to find Harding. “Lace!” they cried frantically, dashing through the debris that began to crash down from the ceiling.

“Rook!” she returned, her voice carrying through the caverns like a beacon. With a determination that rivalled any they had ever felt before, Asaaranda rushed to follow it through the dim-dark.

When they spotted her, it was like reliving the moment they saw her again for the first time in the Hinterlands. A spike of relief, grief, and overwhelming love all at once.

Shuddering in relief, Rook slid to their knees to embrace Harding tightly, holding back the bubbling sob in their throat. “Thank Andraste you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Rook,” she murmured, clinging perhaps a bit too tight in return for someone who claimed to be okay. “Spooked, but fine.”

The distant sound of even more rocks tumbling and falling began to echo from the tunnels they had entered the main cavern from, making both of them snap their heads towards the source of the sound.  

“That sounded like a cave-in,” Harding cursed under her breath. “We need to try and get back to the lift. If we’re trapped down here…”

“Let’s not even consider it,” Asaaranda insisted, swallowing harshly as they brought the both of them to their feet. “I’ve got your back. We will get out of here, one way or another.”

They should have known better than to expect it would be a simple grab and go, but Maker, this was starting to get ridiculous.