Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For over a year, branded by the Fade and beset at all sides by the end of the world, the Inquisitor had done the impossible day in and day out. It had honed the edge of the women beneath the title even as it chipped away at her. It had spurred her feet forward and bent her slender back. And it wasn’t until her final victory faded from sight behind her that she realized she no longer knew who she was without its weight.

It was a gradual realization for Morai, once-First to Clan Lavellan. The months immediately following her defeat of Corypheus had been a haze of rage and grief at Solas's abandonment, but as the howling of that storm had abated there had still been a hollowness that lingered beneath her sternum. It had frustrated her at first, thinking herself so pathetic as to still be haunted by her absent lover; but she knew well the bitter flavor of that particular draught, and this was not it. It was only a matter of time before she found a different name for the new taste on her tongue.

Adrift. She was adrift.

There had been people, those who had known her beyond the title of Inquisitor, who had given her heart a place to rest even in the hard heights of Skyhold; and there had been the all-consuming, escalating fight against Corypheus, which had given her a purpose. Now the former were leaving, as the latter was over. After more than a year of striving against terrible odds and holding back the end of the world with one marked hand, a yawning chasm of peace sucked at her feet.

Her inner circle thinned in the absence of their unifying existential threat, one by one departing with the word home in their hearts, even if it was sometimes a different word on their lips. They had places they had longed for and were now returning to. They had plans, goals, friends and family. Those that stayed—Cullen, Leliana, Josephine, the Iron Bull and even Cole—had roles that defined them.

Morai, left behind, had different things. She had a growing number of ongoing correspondences with her far-flung friends, delivered by ravens she was slowly learning to tell apart. She had a court smile that no longer hurt her face or her social standing, even if it would never be nearly as fine as Josephine's. She had a keep and an army and the ear of the Divine. She had fading calluses on her hands.

She did not have a place. She did not have a purpose.

Oh, there was plenty for her to do. Josephine had her riding across Thedas for meetings of state and balls and negotiations at such a grueling pace that she at times thought longingly of the desperate forced marches to reach Adamant. But this was politics, a deadly game Morai had no aptitude for or interest in even as her position left no choice but to play. She simply did as she was instructed by those who knew those rules well and tried not to fail. There was no meaning to be found in that.

Once, she had imagined a future with Solas. It was embarrassing to think of now; his absence cast even the warmest memories of their time together in a chilling new light, and it was impossible not to question whether any of it had been real. But as the immediacy of his betrayals faded, the details behind them mattered less. He was gone. The whys weren't important.

These days, Morai was much more concerned with a different cruelty of his as she realized that by leaving, he had removed from her reach something irreplaceable: somewhere to belong.

It was not the life together she'd spun dreams of that she mourned any longer, but the in-between space that such a life would have occupied. No aravels or alienages, no clans or courts or castles. Unmarked faces and eyes that would never burn with downtrodden resentment or be lowered in servile fear. Companionship in solitude. No responsibilities but to the daily tasks of living. A house tucked away somewhere on its own, or maybe a pair of horses and the long roads unwinding beneath them. She hadn't ever been picky about the shape their future might have taken, but even the humblest of fantasies were beyond her now. Even if the Inquisition could ever let her rest, going off on her own as a barefaced elvish mage could not end well. And Morai did not want to be alone.

She had The Iron Bull to go to whenever the Chargers were in Skyhold and her mind strayed too far down darkened paths, of course, but while he was very good at shaking her from numbness, Bull was very specifically not her friend. He was first and foremost an employee as the captain of one of several independent mercenary companies in the Inquisition's employ, and he was a spy besides. He did not make her feel less lonely.

That had been Varric's job.

“Aw, don’t look at me like that, Snowdrop,” he was saying, and Morai did her best to fix her expression. “I told you it was coming.”

The dwarf was looking at her with his customary faint, easy grin, but a few extra lines between his brows showed real concern. He was dressed for travel, Bianca slung over a shoulder and one last wooden box of belongings at his side. The hearth dominating the corner he’d claimed as his unofficial office crackled merrily in the early spring chill. Skyhold felt colder already.

She sighed, feeling selfish. “You did. And Kirkwall needs you more than the Inquisition does.”

“You know, if I can hear the silent ‘but’ this clearly, it’s not terribly silent.”

“But,” she admitted with a laugh in spite of herself, “I’m going to miss you.”

Varric’s face softened. “Me too, kid,” he said, and pulled her down for a hug. He smelled of the oil that kept Bianca’s action smooth and deadly. Morai inhaled deeply and bit down on the inside of her cheek until the need to weep had passed.

She straightened after a moment, offering a smile that didn't attempt to mask her sadness this time. “Go. I'll be fine.”

“Oh, sure, that's convincing.”

Rather than trying to defend herself, Morai grabbed Varric's last small chest of personal effects and headed for the open doors, where watery sunlight spilled into the vast dimness of the early-morning Great Hall. Sounds of a bustling courtyard drifted up through the quiet air.

The steps swept down from the keep in a worn, utilitarian kind of elegance over the course of several turning flights. The last such was tucked against Skyhold’s face, the solid wall soaring up above the courtyard, and there the merchant caravan sprawled between it and the ancient curtain wall. Drivers and merchants and staff and Inquisition soldiers swarmed around carts and wagons in the chaotic dance of preparation. They would be leaving soon, and they’d be taking her friend. The journey across the Waking Sea was safer in numbers even for a hero.

Varric kept apace with her as she slowed her approach, the crossbow at his back bouncing rhythmically with his steps. “Listen,” he said abruptly as they neared the last steps, “you should come visit. Take a load off. I'll show you the sights. We've got a Templar who turned into a red lyrium statue, a gaping wound in the center of town where a chantry used to be, all sorts of interestingly dangerous back alleys...”

Morai snorted. “Tempting. I'll see if Josephine left any space on my dance card.”

“You need a vacation, and Ruffles thinks that means another ball,” he said, a surprising amount of real heat behind his complaint. He subsided with a sigh. “I mean it, though. I know you can’t just up and leave right now, but the offer stands as long as I’m around. Just say the word. Or don’t. I’d be happy to see you, wherever you wanted to show up.”

They reached the packed dirt and stubborn grass of the courtyard, and both paused in unspoken agreement. The shouts and clamor of the caravan’s final preparations washed over them like water. Morai shifted the weight of the chest to one hip and held out a hand.

“Until then,” she said. “I’ll look after myself.”

Varric shook his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. His eyes crinkled with the grin, but he was, after all, very good at cards. “You've got to get better at lying, Snowdrop.”

Still, he took her hand and held it warmly in both of his for a long moment. Then he sighed again, deeper this time, and reached for his trunk. Morai surrendered it without comment. He gave her one last look before leaving, and was lost to her sight almost immediately amidst the chaos.

The morning was rising clear and bright around them. With any luck, the weather would hold, and Varric would be home in less than two weeks.

Kirkwall, broken and desperate for mending, was waiting for him. A powerful, seething jealousy rose in her throat like bile, and in that moment Morai could not tell what she hated more: Kirkwall for taking Varric away from her, or Varric for having Kirkwall to return to.

She bit down on it, drawing in a great lungful of the clean morning air and holding it until her chest ached. What would that even look like for her? She thought of Clan Lavellan as she remembered it, not a place, but a people: laughing hunters and curious children and wise elders, marking adulthood and service to their gods on their faces. The image was faint, faraway, and her bare cheeks were cold. She released the memory and the breath she was holding, and sagged in the wake of both.

A smattering of Inquisition forces in the courtyard had noticed her, small and pale against the vastness of the keep at her back. They were saluting. Morai met their eyes in turn with a nod, and then turned from the caravan's last preparations.

She had Skyhold. If nothing else, she belonged here.

She even mostly believed it.

Her feet were steadier on the steps than her heart was in her chest. Behind her, a great clanking of chains announced the portcullis's stately rise.

Chapter Text

Snowdrop. Delicate, small, pale. A little flower both easy to overlook and unlikely-seeming when spotted, blooming as it did amidst the late snows. She’d asked Varric why he’d gone with Snowdrop of all things after the first full week of him calling her that. He’d grinned and pointed out that she flinched every time someone called her Herald, but then he’d paused. Later, she'd recognize the hesitation as a moment to weigh whether the truth was worthwhile. 

“It’s a promise of spring,” he’d said simply, his tone and expression still light but his gaze measuring. “A pretty little thing that appears like magic in the middle of winter.”

“Oh,” she’d replied, having nothing else to say.

He’d laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I called the last elven woman I knew 'Daisy.' Maybe there’s just something about your people that says flowers to me. Besides, hasn’t the Seeker told you I don’t have a sincere bone in my body?”

Even then, Morai had seen the genuine feeling under the wry dwarf’s cheer. But she’d gathered enough to let it lie, and instead offered a shrug and a smile. “No, but she told me to never play cards with you.”

His eyebrows went up. “Is that so.”

“...when’s the next game?”

Varric, delighted, had clapped her on the shoulder. “I knew I liked you. C’mon, Curly just let the recruits take a break. The Singing Maiden will be lousy with folks who think they know Wicked Grace.”

It had been just about a year since he'd left. 

In Varric's absence, Skyhold had become more isolating than it had ever yet been. Without his easy charisma bridging the divide, Morai was utterly separated from the soul of the Inquisition by her title, her people’s conversations going quiet with reverence as she neared. She did not attempt to play cards in the barracks, nor drink at the Herald's Rest. These places were not hers, and she did not want to darken the doorways where her people went to forget their troubles. 

It didn't matter. She was away most of the time, anyway. When she was present in the keep, she took her meals with her advisors. The talk was almost all of politics.

In her spare few hours, Morai wrote her friends and read her books and played chess—with Cullen when his duties allowed, but with Dorian, too, each move a postscript on the letters they exchanged as frequently as the world made possible. Their long-distance game was laid out on a chessboard she'd set up in her room so she could study the pieces in between ravens. It was her move, and she needed to make a decision before she could send her reply back north to Tevinter. 

“—and with all that implied, it’s essential you spend at least a month in Ferelden to remind the court of your good works. Eamon will be the key. I can arrange for you to take part in the king’s next great hunt…” Josephine trailed off to make a note to herself, and then nodded. “…or, better, his next private one. That will do nicely for a conversation between you as people. Your titles can posture at each other later.”

There was meaning in her words, but Morai was having trouble focusing on them enough to retain it. She dropped her gaze down. Before her, the map of Thedas spread across the great table like a flood, rich vellum drowning the ancient wood beneath it. Her eyes swept over it as if searching for life. The finely inked lines remained stubbornly inanimate.

“A hunt is dangerous,” Leliana was saying matter-of-factly. “Great personages of all kinds have met with tragic hunting accidents.”

“I very much doubt that our position has decayed so drastically as to warrant an assassination attempt, and the Inquisitor is no ordinary great personage ,” the ambassador said with a dismissive wave of her quill, shooting a smile at Morai as if they were sharing a joke. “And, really, are you saying we couldn't safeguard one woman?” 

Leliana smiled a small, chilling smile, but it was Cullen who answered. “We'll of course do our best, and Inquisitor Lavellan can certainly hold her own, but it's nigh impossible to manage or plan around the chaos of a hunt, big or small.”

“I want to go to Kirkwall.”

Josephine, who had opened her mouth to reply to the commander, swung her gaze to Morai with an expression of utter confusion. Cullen frowned and looked down at the map. Their spymaster raised one elegant eyebrow, her eyes considering but otherwise unreadable.

“Inquisitor,” the ambassador said slowly, clearly struggling to contextualize her non sequitur, “I agree that the Free Marches are not unimportant, and reaffirming the official backing of the more powerful monarchs might count in our favor, but Bran is only Kirkwall’s provisional Viscount, and—”

“I don't care about the Viscount, provisional or not,” Morai interrupted. She felt like a petulant child. “I want to see Varric.” 

Leliana and Josephine looked at each other in silent communication, but, surprisingly, Cullen was already nodding. There was a hard set to his mouth—he had, she knew, no love for the memories Kirkwall's name stirred—but something about his hard expression yet spoke of understanding.

“If you're truly set on the idea of this hunt, Josephine, we'll need time for Leliana's agents to make sure there aren't any murmurs of hunting accidents in King Alistair's court,” he said, turning to his colleagues. “The Inquisitor has been working hard—and this is work, as you well know. It seems unlikely she couldn't be spared for a month or two while preparations are made and invitations are secured. Kirkwall is closer to Denerim than Skyhold is, besides.”

The ambassador frowned. “I had thought for you to visit several arlings on your way to Denerim…” she mused, and then shook her head and sighed. “But no, Cullen is right. None of those meetings are so crucial that they cannot be arranged some other way.”

“Thank you,” Morai said quietly. Josephine, already updating her notes, murmured a distrated acknowledgement. The commander inclined his chin.

Leliana was watching her with a sharp, thoughtful expression. “Two months until Denerim, then, or close enough. If you want to spend more than a week with Varric before you have to leave, you’ll need to travel light and fast. No luggage or attendants—don't sigh, Josie—but traveling alone isn't an option.”

She really was just a child at the adults’ table. “I don't need minding.”

“Even the Inquisitor has to sleep sometimes. I would hate to see the woman who felled Corypheus fall in turn to some lucky bandits stumbling across her camp.”

“Fine. You’d have scouts follow me whether or not I agree. I might as well have the company.” Every word felt like it was coming from someone else, but Morai could not dredge up the will to be gracious. She was being granted a little recess by her handlers. It was what she’d asked for—it was what she needed, desperately—but it stuck in her throat all the same. 

“True,” Leliana agreed with a smile, seemingly unbothered. “Don’t worry. I’ll pick well.”

How far she’d fallen since the world had failed to end. “I’d like to leave tomorrow. If that’s agreeable to everyone, I’ll go send word to Varric.”

The enormity of her loneliness had, over the past year, sunk to a dull ache—one that had been possible to shrug off right up until it wasn't. It was humiliating to have that moment come in the middle of the war room, but, Morai reasoned, that was better than in the middle of an Orlesian salon. Her advisors would not respect her less for it, she knew. Even if she did not want their pity, having it meant that tomorrow she was leaving for Kirkwall. She'd have a chance to breathe and shrug off her heavy mantle for a few weeks. All would be well.

She turned for the doors before anyone could reply. It felt like a retreat. 

All would be well.

Varric, 

I've slipped the leash. I'll have a couple of weeks to take in the sights. If you mention one single political function, even (ESPECIALLY) as a joke, I'll throw myself into the Waking Sea.

Yrs. 
Snowdrop

In the grey light of pre-dawn, Morai found three snorting horses and a handful of people tucked against the curtain wall of the courtyard. Most of them were stablehands giving the tack one final check or making sure the filled saddlebags were settled evenly, and they saluted raggedly as they noticed her approach. 

The two remaining figures turned to look at her as the gaggle finished their inspections and fled. They were both human; the man was tall and broad and carried a sword at his side like he’d been born with it, and the woman was stocky, armed with a crossbow and two visible knives, and easy on her feet. Their names, the woman said, were Marius and Tessa, and they would be her companions on the long road. They did not salute her. Morai found her mouth relaxing into a smile.

For a week and two days, no one looked at her beyond her ears and her staff. Without her vallaslin, with her Knight-Enchanter's hilt wrapped up carefully at the bottom of her pack, with her most road-worn armor emblazoned with the same Inquisition symbol as the two humans, she wasn't anyone in particular. As saddle-sore as she was from the hard days of riding, as much as her companions kept to themselves—for the first time since before Haven was destroyed, she felt light.

But somewhere in between Jader and Kirkwall, the rocking of the Waking Sea turned her elation to lead. The road had felt endless, but they’d be docking soon. For a little while longer she’d get to be Morai, but at the end of her time with Varric she would again have to take up the bloodless title of Inquisitor. 

It made her want to scream. It made her want to run. But there was nowhere to go but forward as the wind filled the cutter’s sails and compelled them on.

The Twins with their sea-choking chains soared up ahead of them to unimaginable heights, the cliffs behind them dark and imposing. Waves crashed and boomed. In the echoing channel they guarded, disquieting carvings defaced by age and salt and human hands watched their ship approach the docks. 

“Snowdrop!” Varric's voice cut through the noise of the busy port. He stood like a rock in a watercourse with one hand raised in greeting, people flowing around him as they went about their business. He wore a wide smile and the fine clothes of a wealthy merchant and the same old hard boots as always. Bianca gleamed where she peeked over his shoulder.

Morai leapt the gap before the gangplank could be lowered and slammed into Varric in a crouch. His oof was theatrical; he barely budged at the impact, and his arms went right around her and squeezed. She laughed to be touched again, to be embraced by a friend, and hugged him back tight across the shoulders. 

She couldn't tell when her laughter turned to weeping, only that at some point he started rubbing her back. The soothing circles ended with a gentle pat.

“Alright. C'mon, kid. Crying in public is a time-honored tradition in Kirkwall, but I think you'll be more comfortable up at the house.” His voice was still light and amused, but under the jocularity it sounded unimaginably gentle.

With a watery chuckle, Morai straightened and wiped her face with her forearm. “So about me taking care of myself…”

“Oh, I wasn't going to mention it,” Varric said airily, waving to Tessa and Marius as they descended the plank. “But if you're the one bringing it up…”

“Varric!” Tessa's face was lit with a grin. “Got any new chapters for us?”

“Don't tell my publisher, but for you and Chatty? Always.”

Marius said nothing, but something related to a smile crossed his stern face. He handed Morai her pack with a nod as he passed her.

She flushed with embarrassment. “Oh, I'm…”

He moved away before she could finish the apology. Tessa waved it off. “Don't worry about it. You've been a treat.” The smile she gave seemed warm enough under its sharp edges. 

Varric clapped Morai on the arm fondly, saving her from having to figure out a reply. “That's my girl—only a problem for the bad guys and herself. Will you two be coming up to the house?”

“Unfortunately not. Charter gave us a laundry list, and we’re only stopping here long enough to refresh our supplies.”

“Shit. No rest for the wicked,” the dwarf said heavily. “Well, mention my name when you shop for a few discounts, and swing by The Hanged Man before you go. Those chapters will be waiting for you, though please burn them when you're done or they'll have my hide.”

Tessa grinned. “Will do. See you around. Good luck,” she added to Morai. Marius nodded to her and Varric both, and with that, they left, melting into the crowd with professional ease.

At her side, Varric dropped the smile like a stone and sighed as he watched the space where they'd been. “They're running those two into the ground. And you—I can't say it feels good to have been right, you know. About the whole 'you taking care of yourself' thing.”

Horribly, he sounded genuinely sad about it. Morai couldn’t bear it. She scrubbed the last lingering tears from her cheeks and made a great show of slinging her pack up on her back, forcing lightness into her voice as she said, “Well, it got me here, didn't it? You promised me interesting back alleys.”

“So I did,” he said, sliding her a knowing look. His grin was back, if a little bitterer than before. “Well, c'mon then. We've got a lot of ground to cover.”

Chapter Text

Kirkwall was an ugly city. 

It was not entirely its fault. Refugees had flooded through it during the Fifth Blight, and Qunari had occupied it, and red lyrium had poisoned it. A madman—or a visionary, depending on who you asked—had destroyed its heart. A bloody uprising had started in its streets. And on top of it all, as far south as it was, a few rifts had opened up outside of the walls and dropped demons into its surrounding fields and tributary towns, halting what little progress had been made to heal it. The displaced and destitute still littered its streets.

All that aside, though, it really was still hideous. Varric’s face shone with pride as he conducted his tour.

“—where the Qunari camped out. Now that was the slowest-moving clusterfuck I’ve ever witnessed, and I watched Hawke and Fenris court.”

Morai raised her eyebrows. “I know I spent all of a month around Hawke, but that was enough to make me scared of what you just said.”

“Not scared enough. Let me paint you a picture,” Varric said with relish. “I want you to think of the two worst people you know—not people who’re bad, mind, just the worst at being people—and then imagine them stuffed into a kettle that’s already simmering, and then throw that kettle directly into the fire. When the kettle is nicely screaming, take it out very carefully and place it on a pile of gaatlok, and—”

“Alright, alright,” she laughed, “I get the picture.” 

There was no trace of the former occupying force's compound. They had withdrawn years ago, and whatever structures had survived the raining destruction of the chantry had been razed in the mage rebellion. A bustling market now filled the space.

The matter of Hawke would always lay between them, though it was no longer an open wound. She did not ask what had happened to Fenris, and he did not volunteer.

“There's always more to Kirkwall, like there are always more flies in a latrine, but I don't want you to make you forget you like me,” Varric said instead, grinning. “Dinner? If I'm hungry, you've gotta be starving. Let's get to The Hanged Man before they run out of identifiable meat.”

Privately, Morai would have rather eaten travelers’ hardtack than another greasy tavern pie, but she loved The Hanged Man and watching Varric hold court there. He was in his element as she'd never seen him at Skyhold; being a part of his circle here, being at the center of it, was intoxicating. It had been two days, and she already felt more at home there than she ever had in her own keep. 

(That wasn't true, a cruel whisper noted. There had been a time when her rooms had not felt like an oubliette. There had been a time when she smiled to think about returning to the mountain fastness. Dull anger and tired shame stirred weakly at the reminder, and she cast it all back, wearily, like flotsam on a fishing line.)

“After you,” was all she said, and fell back into step beside him. 

Kirkwall's Lowtown was a warren, close and crooked and rife with smells, but through Varric’s narration Morai was coming to understand what he loved about it. It spat in the face of those who would lord over it, scratched fierce pride and dignity from the worn cobbles, and knit of its disparate peoples one community. At its center, The Hanged Man pulsed with life.

The tavern could be heard from a block and a half away. When they'd approached it on her first evening in the city, Morai had assumed there was a fight going on and had been more than a little alarmed at the thought of strolling into the middle of it. But, as it turned out, that's just what the place was like: roaring, angry, exuberant and dangerous, the beating heart of Lowtown and—according to Varric—Kirkwall itself. 

“They make their laws and count their money up in Hightown,” he shouted expansively over the din. “But without us, here, there's no grist for the mill.”

Morai could understand that. The daily running of Skyhold wasn’t her purview, but she sat with the seneschal and her advisors to go over the Inquisition’s needs regularly; there was an endless list of tiny daily tasks necessary to keep the great beast moving. She only employed a few hundred people for her hold, but a city this size would need thousands. Most of them would live here.

Still, the last few years had taught her something of the world outside of a clan’s much simpler society. “I can appreciate the sentiment, but isn’t it Hightown who funds your good works?”

“Oh, only under duress,” Varric said, waving half a pie that he assured her was actually mutton. “They get to look like do-gooders while keeping their hands soft and their boots clean. I get to call them pricks while spending their coin.”

Laughing, she saluted with her battered tin mug and drank, the dark beer washing away the lingering skim of fat on her tongue. “With all that, don't you have things you should be attending to aside from me?” 

“Nothing that can’t see to itself for a few days. Why? Getting bored of me already?” He grinned. “Though, you know, now that you mention it, I've been meaning to visit Wycome. I've got a lumber contact there who needs a little facetime, and I’m realizing that Kirkwall's many charms could be a me thing. A break might be nice.”

Morai sighed, the noise soundness even to her own ears in the din. “Varric, you can just ask me if I want to visit my clan.”

“Alright,” he said easily, and leaned in. “Do you want to visit your clan?”

“I—” she said, and stopped. It had been impossible for so long she suddenly had no idea what she even felt at the idea. “I don't know.”

“So, I've been meaning to visit Wycome…”

“You really think I should go.” 

“Well, yeah. Is there some reason you shouldn’t?”

Instead of answering, Morai sighed again. Behind Varric, a group burst into a bawdy song, and she glanced their way reflexively.

Fine features. Large eyes. Pointed ears. Elves, laughing, one elbowing a human man who seemed to be conducting the table with a full tankard. Bare-faced. Dressed in the same homespun and boots that anyone else in Lowtown would wear, not one bit of leg wrapping or vine tracery to be found. 

They weren’t the only ones. She’d noted her first night that there were more elves at The Hanged Man than she had ever seen in one place before. Her clan had been perhaps fifty strong when she’d left, but about a third of them were always away on some combination of hunts, scouting missions, or trade efforts. Since leaving them, the most elves she'd seen together at any given time had been in Halamshiral, when Briala's spies had grouped themselves by fives or sixes just for safety. Even in Skyhold, most of the elves were servants moving singly or in pairs through the fortress on tasks. 

Here, though a number of the serving girls were clearly not human, elves were mostly patrons; and while they still largely grouped themselves together, it was not the tense self-segregation she’d come to expect. They moved easily within the crowd. Varric had noted offhandedly that it was not so brotherly everywhere in the city, or even in all of Lowtown, but the alienage was essentially the tavern’s neighbor. This was their home. 

With her bare face, Morai could have been one of them. Disquiet crept through her like smoke.

“No reason at all,” she said firmly, and tossed back the rest of her beer. It was sour on her tongue. “Let me know when you want to leave.”

They traveled by sea. The journey took two and a half days with favorable winds.

It should not have been frightening, going home. Morai knew that at one point it would not have been, but that woman was gone; she who would have been longing ahead, an arrow straining from a bow, had died somewhere in the last two years. The one who'd survived the Conclave, the horrors of that broken future in Redcliffe, her people screaming as Haven fell, Halamshiral, Adamant, the Arbor Wilds, a hundred battles, a thousand skirmishes, loss and loss and loss at every turn, who had trusted a man who said she'd marked herself a slave—

—the one who'd defeated Corypheus and tasted the victory like ash in her mouth: that woman avoided the bow of the ship as if by not looking forward, she could forestall the inevitable.

Uncaring of her dread, the miles sped past. The sails billowed and the prow cut the water as cleanly as a knife under the constant crying of the narrow sea's gulls. Varric, his good cheer unflagging in the face of her tension, pestered her for Keeper Deshanna's versions of common Dalish lore and taught her Chanson d'Argent with an eye toward fleecing the Orlesian merchants they were berthed with. He did not actually ask her for her state of mind. Morai rather thought he knew.

Her dreams were rich with rejection and each waking found her raw-nerved and short; she had lost the last of her ability for merciful self-deception with the markings on her face, and there was little comfort to be found in memory.

But the sun rose on a whole sky. She had done that. She would not cower.

Her friend rested his hand on her fist where it clenched on the table, and she loosened her fingers against the wood. He dealt the cards. And if it was not a kind expression, she still smiled when she won.

On first look, the manor showed an unremarkable face to the world. It was removed from the lane by a short drive, just long enough to offer a layer of quiet without rendering it uninviting, and the courtyard was unassuming and neat. The flagstones met well-tended verges planted with flowers and lush greenery; the grounds spilled out beyond them, as expansive as the banks of the Minanter River's many wandering sea-bound channels could allow. To the east, the erstwhile Duke's palace and several merchant estates overlooked the city and the wide Amaranthine coast. This was not half so ostentatious a property as those, but its quiet dignity made it a fine choice for one of Wycome's newly-established Councilors.

Were it not for the aravels gathered by the trees along the northern edge of the property, Morai would have thought she'd been given directions to the wrong one. But having seen them, their scarlet sails achingly familiar even at a distance, more tells nearer at hand became obvious: little shrines to the gods tucked amongst the flowers, elfroot and embrium growing where perhaps there had once been roses. Symbols of home in a wholly unnatural context. Unease dragged at her like cobweb.

The door had been painted red to match the aravels. She raised her hand slowly to knock. It was only a matter of minutes before a bare-faced elf in the simple clothes of a servant opened the door.

“Yes?”

Morai blinked. The man was clearly a city elf by his lack of vallaslin and his accent, but his feet were bare except for Dalish legwraps. The combination was jarring and nonsensical, worse than the gardens, and it made her suddenly and uncomfortably aware of her boots. When had she stopped wrapping her legs? Skyhold? But no, she had worn boots in Haven—she remembered feeling numb gratitude for their protection as she staggered her way through snow after its destruction.

The servant’s expression of polite welcome was beginning to turn into suspicion. Caught between her confusion of such blended dress and the reliance she’d developed on being announced or simply known on sight, she had let the silence stretch uncomfortably.

 “Oh! I’m sorry—” she began, but Varric cut in with a shallow but pretty bow.

“Good morning. My name is Varric Tethras, Head of House Tethras of the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild, formerly of the Inquisition. I present the Inquisitor, Morai of Clan Lavellan, who wishes to pay her respects to her Keeper, Councilor Istimaethoriel. She regrets not sending word ahead, but welcomes a chance to speak after so long apart.”

“Ah—thank you, Master Tethras," the servant said, straightening visibly. His eyes swept over both of them with renewed interest, and after one more moment of consideration he stepped back and held the door wide. "Please accept our welcome, Inquisitor. Right this way.”

They were led to a sunny parlor and left with a crisp bow and a softly-closed door. Halla figurines adorned an elegant mantle painted recently with Sylaise's symbols by an amateur hand. Morai waited until the servant’s footsteps faded from the hall and then spun to face her friend. “What was that?” 

“That,” Varric said easily, picking up one of the tiny halla and looking it over appreciatively, “was me doing you a favor. If Ruffles got wind you’d let a Wycome councilor's servant shut the door in your face, she’d never let you travel without a retinue ever again.”

She opened her mouth, affronted, then closed it with a click. He was right. A flush of embarrassment crept warm across her face, but she swallowed down the retort that pressed at her teeth. This was all wrong. She'd read all the letters, knew intellectually that her clan was now in Wycome, was now a part of Wycome—but there was knowing, and then there was understanding. She'd been so miserable at the thought of how much she'd changed, she had not at all considered how they might have. The polished stone beneath her shod feet felt skimmed with ice.

The door opened before Morai could find the words or her footing. At the sight of the man who opened it, the room swung as if she'd staggered.

“Savh, Belavahn! Th’ea?” The words leapt unbidden from her lips, giving voice to a love so simple and complete that it rendered her for a moment blind to aught else. She took a breathless step forward, seeing nothing but a dear face from another life like a portrait unveiled before her; then a polite cough registered behind her, and she blinked, remembering she hadn't come alone. Beaming, she turned to bring him into her joy. “Varric, meet Belavahn. A brother nearer than blood, Second to my First. Or—of course, you'd be First now.” She faltered a little at the mistake and glanced back to the young man with an apologetic smile, expecting by his silence to be greeted with good-natured exasperation. Instead, his face was closed and wary.

“An’diran atish’an,” he said formally, his eyes trained somewhere above her right shoulder. “Master Tethras, you are thanked for accompanying our sister this far, but you are asked to remain here. Refreshments will be brought. Inquisitor, Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel will see you. Please follow me.”

With this, he turned and strode off down the hallway. Morai felt the wave of rapturous homecoming that had swept her feet from under her recede, leaving cold wreckage in its wake. She stared after his retreating back for one suspended breath, swung to meet Varric's pitying eyes helplessly, and then followed.

Belavahn's stiff stride had already carried him down the hall; she hurried after him as he disappeared through a door at the end. When she emerged to find herself back in the lofty foyer, he was already halfway up the sweeping staircase. There was no one else present, though she could hear cooking-songs filtering in from somewhere toward the back of the manor.

Bewildered hurt propelled her up the steps two at a time as lightly as a child. "Wait. Belavahn—melena!"

He paused where he stood nearly at the top of the stair, one foot raised, his hand tightening on the carved banister. "Keeper Deshanna is waiting, Inquisitor," he said stiffly, the formality as unnatural as her title in his voice. This was the same boy who'd never once said hahren with all the due respect, now speaking as if he was a politician. He was still looking ahead, and as she gained on him, tracking wide to try and see his face, he turned further away and continued walking. "This way."

A lifetime ago, Belavahn would never have been capable of speaking to her as anything less than a sister. He'd come into his magic young, less than a year after Morai had though she was six his senior, and she'd more or less helped Deshanna raise him. He'd been a smiling youth whose easy cheer had balanced her dutiful nature. When news of the shem Conclave had reached them and the decision to send a spy had been made, he'd argued that he should be the one to go, that she was too important to the clan to risk; but their Keeper had judged him too young and indelicate. She had, privately, agreed.

He'd given her a June's knot he'd carved before she left. It hadn't survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes. In the almost three years since, she'd barely thought of that one small loss among the many—but now, faced with unfathomable changes and inexplicable coldness, she itched for the warmth of worn wood to turn in her fingers.

Instead, she caught his arm when he stopped before a door. "Lethallin," she said, sharpening the word into a command. Belavahn's gaze met hers as if dragged. "It is good to see you."

The words hung in the air. His eyes were huge, affection and fear warring across his face, but he seemed to be rendered utterly mute now that his carefully rehearsed role was at an end.

At least he had the grace to look ashamed. She waited a beat to see if it would become anything else. When it didn't, she released his arm and his eyes and let herself into the bright room beyond him, shutting the door firmly in her wake. The click of the latch had barely cleared the air when a simple word in a familiar voice struck her like a bolt.

"Da'len."

In an instant, all of the wounded authority Morai had gathered about herself fell away. She could no more have resisted stepping forward than she could have stopped her heart from beating, even as the world spun at the sight that greeted her.

Dalish inhabiting a shem manor house in any context was disconcerting, but to actually behold Keeper Deshanna utterly at home in the solar of one beggared belief. The clan's traditional art adorned walls papered with Orlesian damask; the old woman's half-bare feet in their worn leg wraps rested on a plush, upholstered stool.

"Keeper," Morai said faintly, rocking to a halt a pace away. The urge to kneel was overwhelming, but her knees remained stiff. Outside the open windows, birds sang in overlapping trills.

Deshanna's rich brown eyes were inscrutable as they took in every detail, lighting first on her erstwhile First's left hand and boots before holding steadily on her face. The Anchor, its usual crackling pain so ordinary as to be forgotten, flared as if in challenge. Morai closed her fist on it, swallowing, bearing it, forcing herself to steadily return the scouring regard.

Three years lay heavy on the woman before her. Old lines of care were deeper now than they had once been, and new ones seamed her forehead and cheeks and turned the skin around her eyes to crêpe. More than that, though, Morai was struck by how graven her face was. She could have been carved from stone.

The Keeper had never been young in her memory, but she had always had a certain softness even at her most dignified and stern. That was gone. While the desperate fight against Corypheus had threatened the whole world, in this small city backed against the sea it had very specifically been Clan Lavellan and the city elves under its protection who'd come within a breath of being slaughtered. That they had survived did not erase the cost of living through it. Her beloved face had been rendered hard and tired, like looking into a mirror, of sorts, across years and burdens. But overtop it all, something else, something that unbalanced Morai more than even being treated as a stranger: the faintest glaze of a wholly alien pride. It was there in the slight upward tilt of her chin, the idly possessive way she traced the fine embroidery beneath her fingers, the ease with which she took her audience as if from a throne. She held herself with easy surety in this pretty room.

Was this part of the looking-glass, too?

"Emm'asha," Deshanna sighed before the thought could coalesce further. "It's been a long time."

There was a shadow of old warmth in her voice, and Morai dropped heavily to her knees, cut down by love where she had stood fast against the chill. The hard stone of her Keeper's face cracked, and she reached out, gnarled fingers coming to rest feather-light on her unbowed head.

For a moment, at that touch, years disappeared. She was not the Inquisitor, not a victorious leader, not even a grown woman — she was fifteen, kneeling silent, her face upturned under the needle as her devotion to June was etched into her skin. She could remember the pain of it; the clean, honored release of tears. The salt had stung awfully where her new vallaslin traced down the edge of her lids and swept from the outer corners of her eyes. Pride had warred with dizziness as the last long lines was tapped down the center of her lip, her chin, her neck. Four short strands across the center of her throat completed the design. Her clan had embraced her, Deshanna first of them all.

Then the the present reasserted itself as the old woman withdrew her hand. If her fingers trembled in the air before folding back neatly into her lap, perhaps it was just age, as there was no such hesitation in the closing of her face. Morai sat back on her heels, forcing her breathing to steadiness, and watched the sky through the windows as her Keeper spoke.

"When the last Arlathvhen met," she began, her voice falling into the lyrical cadence of the histories, "there were those who said the collapse of the Circles was nothing for us to fear, that it was a problem for shemlen and flat-ears and their Conclave was thus nothing we had to care about. But Sabrae was wiped out at Kirkwall, and the shem could not be relied upon to understand the distinction between us and the city-folk when their rebel mages were led by an elf. Have they ever let us live unmolested in the face of such provocation? I offered Lavellan to watch the talks and bring back information. I offered you."

The stories Deshanna had impressed into her and Belavahn in all the long years of their training had been woven through the moving air under leaf and sky; her words had been punctuated by settling creaks of the aravels and wordless conversations between the halla and the birds. The clan itself had breathed in the background of every line. In the stillness of this room, the half-chant felt wrong.

"It was all so much bigger than we thought," Morai said, desperate to step out of the flow. The manor pressed in on her from all sides, heavier than Skyhold's ancient stones. "The Veil, Corypheus—"

The Keeper raised a hand, and in spite of herself she immediately fell silent. "You defeated a great evil, da'len," the old woman said. The teaching cadence was gone. In its absence the words were flat. "You saved us in the midst of saving the world. It is because of you that Thedas still stands, and within it two elves sit on the ruling Council of a city that would have seen us all slaughtered like sheep."

"I did," Morai said, meaning to stop there, but bitter words rose through her throat unbidden at the old woman's tone. She could not quite bite them back. "I didn't come looking for thanks, but I did not expect to be treated as if I'd sinned. Should I apologize for what I did here?"

"Not for that, no," Deshanna said, heavy, matter-of-fact. She'd sounded like this when she'd told Hauen that Lavellan had too many mages, and had cast him out. "You turned aside the blade at our throats, and helped raise us up. For that, you will always be an honored guest."

An honored guest—a pretty way of casting her out. She'd have much preferred a plainer way of pronouncing her harellan.

The Keeper continued as if she had not just ripped the heart from the kneeling woman before her. "You left us as a true child of the Dales, Morai—my steady First, your devotion to our gods plain on your face. But the shemlen called you the Herald of their Andraste, and you let them. They made you their Chantry's Inquisitor, and you took up the title with both hands. They stole your vallaslin," and here, for the first time, her voice cracked. She stopped, cleared her throat. When she spoke again, the grief was a barely-audible thread. "However they did it, you have not seen fit to correct its absence."

Morai felt on her face the places where the wind and her vallaslin both should have been. In the stillness, calm like a shroud descended over her.

The world had seen fit to turn the two of them, both daughters of the People meant to walk under an open sky, to governing and holding court within walls. They held their slender shoulders straight as they fumbled at ill-suited importance. So it was a mirror, then, but an imperfect one: as Inquisitor, she at least understood what she had lost, while Deshanna's hoary feet rested bare against rich fabric and her halla grazed by weed-choked aravels.

There was no further obeisance due, so Morai stood, one foot and then the other bearing her upward. "Shall I stop having myself announced as being of Clan Lavellan?"

Her voice was even, the question polite. Whatever Deshanna had expected, it was not that; she blinked slowly, cleared her throat again, and took a breath deep into her lungs to give herself a moment to think.

But the old woman did not look away. She'd taught that lesson perhaps without realizing it: how to be unflinching in the face of the worst.

"I understand if you wish to, but keeping your name connected to ours is good for every elf in Wycome," she said eventually. That thread of grief still shimmered in her voice, but it felt out of place now in this conversation between heads of state. Morai felt disappointed, and a little pitying. It was Deshanna, after all, who'd always taught that sometimes authority meant you needed to accept a cut if it meant your blood would nourish the trees; for the good of the clan, you needed to be ready to step into the knife.

Which of them was holding it now, and who was piercing whose breast? If she was the one bleeding, whose earth was she feeding?

Meaningless questions. Morai inclined her chin to the Keeper, a precise movement meant to graciously acknowledge a personage while firmly placing them as lesser; its subtleties would be lost on the old woman, but it wasn't for her. "Then I shall continue calling myself Lavellan. Write to Ambassador Montilyet if there's anything this city's elves need. She will ensure the Inquisition's support."

Deshanna sagged. It didn't look like relief. Surrounded by her finery, she seemed small. Was this truly the shrewd iron-spined will who had loosed her First halfway across the world? The old woman had shaped her more than anyone. She had taught her the burdens of leadership, prepared her for sacrifice and pain, impressed upon her the need to not fear needful change. That the Keeper could no longer recognize her was, Morai realized, nothing more than a failure of imagination.

Drawing herself up to her full, slight height, she looked down at the woman who had set her on her path. A moment hung suspended. But before it could resolve itself, Deshanna looked away.

So much for unflinching. Morai turned without another word.

"Dirthara-ma," the old woman said to her back, but where the words should have been knives they were as soft and mournful as mist. "Mala suledin nadas."

Morai paused, her fingers on the gleaming, figured doorknob. For her Keeper she'd crossed the Waking Sea, spied for her, would have died for her as the hunters by her side had. But she had done worse than die: she had lived, and become something other.

"Dareth shiral," she answered, softly, kindly, and pushed the door open on silent hinges. She knew it was the last thing she'd say to the woman who had made her.

June had crafted himself from nothing. Young and awed by the first flush of her magic, Morai had dedicated herself to him in honor of that making. His marks were gone from her skin now, and her devotion was tainted by Solas's words, but still, she thought, a story of self-creation could be made true even if was on its face false.

Varric would like that one. She'd have to tell him before she left for Denerim.

Belavahn, waiting on the other side of the door, looked like he might say something. She offered him her best court smile and met his eyes until he looked away. He'd been a good Second in their old life, but in this new world he'd need some steel; Deshanna was doing well enough by sheer will and her inborn command, but it seemed that was not so simple to pass along. Maybe Josephine could find a delicate way to help. She'd write the letter on the ship back to Kirkwall.

Down the stairs, fingers light on the rail; through the hallway with its closed doors. Morai opened the last one and was pleased to see they'd set Varric up with a nice spread while he'd been made to wait. She sat without comment and plucked an ashcake from the lovely silver tray and spread on a generous helping of berry sauce. Lahnehn's, she was pretty sure upon tasting it—more tart than sweet. It had always been her favorite. Her friend watched her chew, a thoughtful tilt to his broad head.

"We're going, then?" His voice was mild. His eyes were sad, but not surprised.

Hmming a confirmation, Morai licked the red sauce from her fingers carefully to make sure none of it stained the brocade of her chair. It was very fine, a cream-and-yellow repeating pattern that she recognized as an abstracted rendering of the Golden City. She wondered if anyone from Lavellan knew; she wondered if any of its newly adopted members had mentioned. Not that it mattered. The brocade had never called itself one of them, so it could not be a betrayal.

Her hands clean, she stood, feeling light in the absence of uncertain dread. The pain was sharp and deep, but she was familiar with pain. She bore it, as she bore her loneliness, as she bore her own aching heart and the weight of the world. These scattered pieces were each a part of her; she knew their shape. Morai had had less to work with as a youth of fifteen, or as the bewildered new Herald of Andraste.

It was, she thought, not the worst cloth to work from.

Chapter Text

The journey back to Kirkwall along the narrow sea went faster than their trip out, though it took longer. The sails were half-slack any time Morai chanced to look up from the deck; rowers were called down to the benches and oars unracked on the second day. As the sounds of the boat changed, the snap of sailcloth replaced by the groan and splash of sculls, she found herself breathing easier.

Perhaps it was the metaphor she found so comforting. She had been propelled by the winds of the world for years, but the only way forward now, for at least a moment, required effort. Once she stepped foot on Ferelden soil she'd once again be swept up; here, now, they might not let her belowdecks to crew a bench, but by the fourth day Morai found herself humming along to the rowing-songs.

—and if you could, someone with a light hand to help educate members of the Council on the finer points of politics. They've managed admirably so far, but some guidance is needed if we wish them to succeed in the long term. Lavellan's First—

She paused, nib hovering over the parchment; on every side, the ship creaked and rocked to the beat of the oarstrokes. Across from her, at the other tiny desk in the cabin, Varric was writing his own letters. His heavy brow was quirked in some private joke, the pen delicate and quick in his broad hand.

—needs the most; but other work will need to be done to ensure the Council can survive Keeper Istimaethoriel's eventual decline. She is a singular will, and through her efforts Wycome is strong, but she is an old woman. There must be provision made against the inevitable—

The rhythm of the rowing-song faltered as a sharp voice barked through it without warning, and what had felt like a great, slow heartbeat stuttered. The unified pulse of song scattered to its component voices; when it resolved again, it had become something else. Morai, her humming now running completely against the new beat of the oars, fell silent and frowned. Through the little porthole, the ragged, dark Marcher coast split grey sky from grey sea. The water moved in sluggish waves.

"Are we close, then?" she asked, and glanced over to find Varric gazing out of his own little porthole. Sincere, open emotion was a rare enough occurrence with him that she always forgot how much it changed his craggy face; in that moment he looked like an utter stranger. Then he blinked, and he was back.

"Very," he said, grinning, waving his letter at the window both to dry the ink and gesture through it at something she'd apparently missed. "There they are, just peeking around the bow—the Twins."

Morai looked back through her porthole, and, as promised, they were just coming into view off to the left: towering, emaciated bronze figures bowed in eternal despair, their cupped hands hiding their faces, their chains disappearing beneath the water. If the figures had once had pointed ears, they'd long worn away. She still chilled at the sight.

"They're awful, aren't they?" Varric said fondly. He wasn't looking at her. "They represent the worst this city has to offer, and remind everyone on the Waking Sea that very bad people built it. There's no amount of scrubbing the Chantry can do to change that. What does it say about me that I think of them like old friends?"

"I think it says that you love your home," Morai answered. She'd meant to speak lightly, but his eyes slid over to her, eyebrows hiked up.

She shrugged in reply. The feeling had always been about people more than place for her: it had always been simple to call those her heart rested with home. But people changed, unlike the Twins. They left, or turned her away. She couldn't quite remember anymore what it felt like to turn her face down the road and know there was a home for her at the end of it.

Far be it, though, to let herself stew in jealousy of Varric and his tarnished, bloody city. He'd suffered for it more deeply than she could have borne, had lost so much while it coldly stood by, and still his arms stayed open. There could be a home for her here, if she wanted. But she was the Inquisitor; such things were not for her to dream of while thousands still followed her banner. She had a duty.

As if in agreement, her left hand buzzed with pain.

Pretending she couldn't feet the weight of Varric's stare, Morai turned from the porthole, her friend, and the thought alike, and busied herself with finishing the letter to Josephine instead. As she wrote, she pressed her marked hand to the wood until the burning eased.

The hunt was, of course, a failure.

Morai was not a woman who had ever been self-conscious of her stature, but everything about the hunting party seemed carefully planned to point up how small she was. Maybe it had been; Josephine's bright smile had certainly seemed brittle as she'd bid them all good hunting. Regardless of intent, in practice it was almost impossible to feel important astride a destrier much too large for her, surrounded by broad-shouldered, fur-clad nobles, giant mabari coursing at their feet. King Alistair and Queen Anora insisted she ride with them, and the latter made polite conversation; the select arls and banns in attendance afforded her the respect due to any powerful, dangerous dignitary. But the tides of politics surged around her as uncontrollably as the great horse she could barely ride. She could not help but feel powerless.

She kept her seat, at least, when the boar broke through to the frantic baying of hounds. It drove itself up Cullen's spear, snapping at the crossguard that had been forged for the sole purpose of stopping just such a thing; it slavered blood and spittle, eyes rolling in furious desperation for one final spite. Queen Anora offered her the honors, and shrugged in a moment of surprising casualness when she demurred. It had been a misstep, of that Morai was immediately sure. She carefully did not look away when Chancellor Eamon cut its throat, but could not help but feel that the damage had been done.

Later, in the finely appointed quarters she'd been given, she moved a pawn forward and tried not to see herself in the diminutive piece of marble. Cullen grunted in thought. Leliana finished writing and, sweeping her eyes over the board thoughtfully, silently passed her the parchment.

There were plots, Inquisitor. We were able to head them off, but your place here is precarious. I have confirmed that the Queen is wholly set against the Inquisition, and while the King does not share her enmity, he bears no great love for you either.

Morai frowned down at the note. Why are we being treated like an enemy force? Southern Ferelden would have been overrun without us.

Josephine, reading over her shoulder, gestured for a turn. She wrote quickly, elegant lines of text spilling from her quill faster than the eye could follow. That is precisely the problem. There are people in this country now who have never met the King or Queen, and who only ever hear from their banns come tithing time, but who saw you work miracles with their own eyes. That alone makes you a threat to royal power. Eamon could perhaps move Alistair to brush aside his queen's concerns, but the Chancellor and his brother cannot forgive you for raising up the mages who so abused the hospitality of their arling.

"So abused—" Morai started aloud, anger flaring, and stopped at Leliana's quiet tsk. The spymaster cut her eyes to the left and behind her, where, she'd explained upon their arrival, there was almost certainly a listening post. "—Commander," she continued lamely, and then groaned for real as she took in the state of the game. "My last tower! This isn't a game any more, it's a beating."

"You're not putting up much of a fight," Cullen said mildly, reaching for the parchment as he did. He scanned the conversation while, between them, the chessboard gleamed in the crackling light of the hearth. She frowned down at it as he penned his reply with a campaigner's practiced speed.

Fiona is Orlesian—there are few greater sins here—and she welcomed the magister who ousted Teagan from his own castle. By naming them allies, you all but spat in Teagan's face, and by extension Eamon's. We played a large part in stabilizing the south, and our efforts rooted Venatori from the King's own court, but the good will that bought cannot outweigh the black marks against us.

A strange hesitation held Josephine's hand as she took her pen up again. She looked almost helplessly at Leliana; the spymaster inclined her head. Morai found herself holding her breath without knowing why as she watched the ambassador square herself and begin to write. The words formed only reluctantly where they had all but leapt from her pen before.

A raven from the Divine reached me before we left Skyhold. I had hoped that this visit might render it moot, but it seems unavoidable now, she wrote, and then paused—lips thin, eyes bleak. It was a terrible expression on such a bright, sharp woman. Ferelden has formally called for the Inquisition to disband, with much implied if we do not. Celene responded with an immediate offer to make us an official arm of the Orlesian Empire—answering directly to her, of course. That alone nearly sparked another war, but the Divine interceded. It is her decree that there is to be an Exalted Council. Our fate will be decided there.

The wood in the fireplace shifted, settled. Morai waited to have a reaction, and found, to her surprise, that the only thing she felt was tired. She took up the pen slowly, her eyes faraway. Does that mean I didn't have to go hunting?

Leliana coughed sharply, too much the bard to let her laughter peal out. Cullen was grinning despite his best efforts. Josephine, startled out of her misery, flashed an apologetic smile. It was worth a try, Inquisitor. You've done the impossible before.

"So I have," she replied aloud, and reached for another pawn. She was going to lose, of course, but she would play it out.

The Exalted Council loomed so large on the horizon for so long that when it arrived, it came nearly as a shock. To Morai, it seemed like she had only blinked; standing on her lofty balcony over the swollen, milling camps sprawled across Skyhold's knees, she could have believed that the world hadn't turned at all since that held-breath moment before the Arbor Wilds campaign. The only difference, from this height, was that there was no one at her side to comment on its state.

That, and the servants in her room. She'd lost that fight sometime in the last year. They were, all of them, elves; they called her Inquisitor in hushed voices, and did not meet her eyes. Under their deft hands, finery was folded into tissue paper and from there into richly-carved trunks big enough to hide in. She could not have begun to list what she might have to fill even one. At the center of the servants' quiet bustling, there were, somehow, three.

Morai fled to the War Room.

Morning poured through the expansive windows and across the ancient table, crisp and bright, unforgiving of the drawn lines of Josephine's face as she bent over a densely-written length of parchment. Her rich complexion was tinged with grey, and ink stained her otherwise immaculately manicured hands. Still, she smiled when she saw who the ancient doors' groan had announced.

"Inquisitor, I'm so glad you've joined me," she said, waving her over. "I was doing one last review of our itinerary before we leave, and I can't help but be certain I missed something essential. I would greatly appreciate it if you lend me a fresh pair of eyes."

Josephine didn't really need her—the itinerary was certain to be immaculate—but Morai sat all the same. There was something about the quality of the light this high up in the mountains that sometimes made everything seem somehow other than real, and for a time it was easy to imagine that they were simply two friends pouring over a task of no great importance. It became something of a game, seeing how many details she could remember about each title and the person who held it, and they debated in increasingly ridiculous terms how each meeting might gain them some small advantage.

It was a temporary interlude, of course. Cullen joined them and talk turned to the number and disposition of forces on the journey to Halamshiral. There was a balance to be struck between good sense, a show of power, and political delicacy, and the debate swung back and forth as it had now for weeks.

Lunch was brought by Leliana instead of a servant. She set the tray down with one elegant eyebrow arched as a particularly heated exchange rang through the lofty room. "Please tell me they know we leave at first light," she said, quiet and amused, as she slipped into a seat.

"They know," Morai sighed, accepting a plate of sausages and pickled onions. Ferelden food, which she had become, somewhat to her chagrin, rather fond of. The accompanying loaf was still hot from the ovens; she closed her eyes and breathed in the steam as she tore off the heel. "They don't have anywhere else to put their worry."

"And you?" The spymaster's heart-shaped face was open and curious, but her eyes were as clear and hard as glass. It was a familiar expression, this doubled look: the warm friend and the calculating bard both interested in her answer. Both sides were sincere, though sincerity meant different things for each.

The argument seemed to be winding down again. Morai dragged her bread through the rich grease on her plate. "What do I have to be worried for? Cassandra will make sure I get to speak, and she'll decide whatever she thinks will keep the best peace. It's out of my hands."

"There is a serenity in such acceptance," Leliana said softly, her chin dipping. Across the table, Cullen sighed noisily as Josephine gave an exhausted laugh, both cut short as they noticed the food for the first time.

"Acceptance?" Morai asked, pausing with her next bite halfway to her mouth. She felt genuine surprise at the thought. Looking at the faces of her advisors—the three people who had not left, who were still beside her after all this time—the word did not quite sit right. Acceptance implied she was open to whatever happened, but that wasn't what she'd meant at all. She'd be able to rest soon; she hadn't thought beyond that at all. Worry could find no purchase against that knowledge. Rather than try to explain, she simply gave a noncommittal shrug. "I suppose."

The Inquisition's retinue was not as grandly arrayed as their ambassador had wanted, nor as heavily armed as their commander thought prudent. Morai—posted at the head of it dressed in what felt much more like court finery than riding gear, banners snapping above her, an honor guard two warriors deep on all sides—wished she had the gall to simply spur her mount westward at a gallop.

That was foolish, of course. Her hardy little palfrey was sure-footed and tireless, but would never outstrip any of her minders' great mounts for speed—and, anyway, it would be undignified to blow through the gates of the Winter Palace wind-tossed and foam-flecked from pushing her horse too hard. The poor creature didn't deserve that, and all it would accomplish would be to confirm what every human in Halamshiral already knew in their hearts: an elf was no fit leader.

At least the dawn rising behind them was beautiful, fingers of rose just starting to brush the night's blue sky to grey.

Cullen rode beside her. He leaned in as they crested the western pass out of Skyhold's valley; he was a large man on a large horse bending to speak to a slip of a woman, but he made it into something deferential instead of a comical sight.

"—and with luck and good weather, we'll be arriving in the vipers' pit in little over a week," he was saying. Morai, watching the sunrise at her back by the shadows at her feet, nodded. They'd get there when they got there. Her advisors' careful planning had never led her astray.

Mistaking her silence, Cullen passed a hand over his face with a small groan. "I'm sorry, Inquisitor. I have no place to complain when you'll be in it up to your neck. Forgive me for that, please, but still… if it is any help, I want you to know that whatever happens—whatever is decided—you have my support. You have me, for as long as you need."

"Thank you," Morai said quietly, tearing her gaze at last from the road to give him the attention he deserved. That kind of devotion… what was she supposed to do with it, having already saved the world? He'd earned his rest after all his efforts, as much as she had. "I've been lucky to have in you such a fine commander, and such a good friend."

"I—thank you, Inquisitor. I'm glad to have your friendship as well," he replied haltingly, but smiled all the same. That there was no reservation in it at all felt wrong.

They rode companionably, mostly not speaking, for the remainder of the morning. Lunch was eaten in the saddle, but even so they were still in the Frostbacks' foothills when the day's halt was called. Sunset painted the peaks behind them in a gorgeous wash of color as Cullen excused himself, the camp raising around them, to check on their train and its accompanying troops.

Morai ate her solitary dinner before her grandly appointed tent and a fire much smaller than the ones ringed by her honor guard. She was about to turn in—to sleep, maybe, or review Josephine and Leliana's half-memorized notes by lamplight until her eyes burned—when her attention drifted over the nearest of them and her eyes stuttered and caught.

It was the profile of a stocky, olive-skinned woman that stopped her. She wore only a long knife on her hip where every other figure had a scabbarded sword leaning within easy reach, and her braided dark hair draped down her back. She was a part of the conversations flowing around her, and her hands were occupied oiling a mundane, well-loved crossbow.

"…Tessa?"

The woman didn't startle, but she craned around immediately, eyes dark and sharp under raised eyebrows. "Inquisitor," she said, sounding more impressed than deferential. "Didn't expect to be remembered. Hey, Marius, would you've thought it?"

To Tessa's left, a man grunted. He was broad-shouldered, but no more so than anyone else at the camp. Morai would never have looked twice at his stony face, but she recognized it now as he turned to regard her expressionlessly.

She stood, uncertain, suddenly, why she'd called out. These people were barely more than strangers. It would be simple enough to bid them goodnight and retreat—but instead of turning herself toward her tent, she found herself approaching them.

"May I?" Morai asked, and gritted her teeth as every set of eyes around the fire swung to her.

Tessa's eyebrows hiked another tick upward, but all she said was, "Sure."

They sat in uncomfortable silence while one by one, the other guards paid their respects and drifted off to the other fire. The conversation there took on a new tone and cadence, and though none of them looked back, Morai knew that she'd broken an important bound. Marius was the only one who remained with them, but he hadn't looked at her since his initial glance; his partner seemed content to wait, her attention still on her crossbow.

"You two," Morai said finally, abruptly, into the stretching silence. "You're Leliana's. I'm surrounded by Cullen's handpicked guard, yet here you are. Why?"

Tessa looked at her consideringly. "You're not wrong to ask, I guess," she said slowly. "You know as well as I do that those strapping lads and lasses there wouldn't have this posting if the Commander and the Nightingale both weren't certain of them. But… there's certain, and then there's certain."

If there was a correct way to respond to learning she had a pair of strangers' apparently complete, unimpeachable loyalty, Josephine had skipped that lesson; as it was, she could barely handle that from people she knew. The fire popped and spat as it found some secret pocket of sap in one of the blackened logs. Morai swallowed and settled on a wholly inadequate, "Thank you."

"Thank Charter," Tessa returned easily, grin flashing in the firelight. "Nightingale takes the wide view, and there isn't enough gold in the world to pay me to cross her, but Charter's the one with her nose to the ground these days. I trust her judgment. And playing nanny—no offense, Inquisitor—beats another jaunt around Tevinter. If you think Marius is a treat now, trust me when I say he gets worse with every mile north."

Morai looked at him askance, then, attempting to return the levity, said, "Well, I'd never try to second-guess Charter—"

"We helped."

Marius's voice had been quiet and flat, but it cut through her words like they hadn't been given breath. "Helped?" she asked, bewildered.

"With the last battle." He was looking at his hands, face unreadable. Tessa returned to her cleaning as he spoke, though her attention was fixed firmly on him. "While you took the important people to fight Corypheus, we cleared the pass for your army, us and that crew of kids. We did our part so the the army was able to do theirs, keeping the demons off you and your people."

"Oh," Morai said, small-voiced. She'd had no idea. She'd never thought to wonder why the Temple ruins hadn't been overrun while she and Solas and Cassandra and Varric—the four of them at the end as they'd begun—waged their desperate battle against Corypheus.

Marius still wasn't looking at her. "That's been happening. It happens every day—people you've never met or noticed fighting for you in ways you'll never hear about. Some of them do it because you're the Herald to them, but for most of us it's because you're the first person we've heard of actually fixing the world."

With that, the man stood unceremoniously and walked away. Morai sat stunned in his wake. During all their days together on the road to Kirkwall, he had never said more than three words in a row, and now that he chose to speak it was the kind of truth that felt more like a blow. She drew a shaky breath and turned to find Tessa watching her thoughtfully.

Whatever her face showed, the other woman offered her a pitying smile and a shrug. "He's not wrong," she said half-apologetically, and didn't seem surprised when Morai bid her a faint goodnight.

She made it to her tent with her back still straight, and snuffed out the lantern as soon as the flap fell closed behind her. In the darkness, the Anchor's faint glow limned everything in green until she clenched her fists closed.

Through the canvas, the Inquisition soldiers' talk relaxed again and drifted back to the first fire; beyond that, the night breathed. There would be sentries out there. Scouts. And on back through the line, back into the valley, within and without Skyhold, beyond it to every outpost and fort, across three countries—spies and stablehands and servants, cooks and clerks, blacksmiths and laundresses, Templars and mages, common soldiers and specialists and knights, all wearing the sign of the burning eye and sword. They were the Inquisition, and they had their own hopes and fears about the future of that great body of which she was just a symbol. Thousands waited to know if their place in the world would remain, or if the thing they belonged to would turn into smoke around them.

All of them looked to her.

Morai, alone in her tent, let her helpless, furious tears fall. Only she, it seemed, had been fool enough to think this would ever end. She was not some singular miracle—of the hundreds who had been there, she had simply been the person who'd opened the wrong door at the right time. It could have been any of them. But the Anchor had cleaved her palm, and so it was her that people worked and fought and died for.

It was so monstrously unfair.

Pain shivered through her clenched left hand. It pulsed with her heart, steady and unflagging, her last remaining companion since Corypheus's fall. With an effort, she uncurled her fingers; the mark crackled as if in response. She could not feel the tears that landed on it, but when she pressed her palm to her chest, the doubled beat made it down to her bones.