The horse's feet beat a rhythmic tattoo upon the ground. It only moves at a canter, allowing the rider to sit up tall and take in her surroundings.

The mountains are cold, still thick with white snow. The snow is pristine, heaped in piles so tall she would be lost in it. The path, however, is somehow clear of the stuff, providing no obstacle to her horse's feet. It is, however, bitterly cold. She worries for the horse's hooves, so she keeps him at a canter to keep his blood warm and coursing through him.

The only thing she sees for many hours are mountains and snow, and the brilliant stars in the inky blackness of the night sky. The constellations are familiar, old stories her mother and father used to share with her as a little girl. Both of her parents are gone now, taken from her. But the stories she still remembers, even as the details of their faces become fuzzy in her mind's eye.

Life has been unkind to the rider in many ways. So much has been taken from her. But much has been left to her, as well. Such is life, she supposes. Especially for those who find themselves at the epicenter of cataclysmic events. You do not leave such chaos without that chaos having left a mark upon you.

Still. Sometimes she wishes her life had stayed quiet, calm, a farm with her parents and her siblings whole and intact. Time and distance make it sting less, but the ache runs deeper. It is a wound that cannot be debrided or mended, no matter how she tries.

So she bears it. She has no other choice.

She travels around a bend in the path, and the very air is stolen from her lungs at the sight revealed to her.

The castle is huge. The whole of a mountain's peak was cleared for its foundation. The stones are ancient, yet continue to hold, strong as ever. Stronger even than what the dwarves might make. Arrayed around it are white-capped peaks, but the castle appears to exist in a bed of spring – the river acting as a partial moat is running, not frozen, and the small amount of land surrounding the castle is verdant in the moonlight, free of the snow currently surrounding the rider's path.

Following the trail with her eyes, the rider sees that the castle is her destination. This is the place she is looking for.

This is Skyhold.

It is many minutes before she approaches the bridge leading to the main gate. She hesitates. Her horse paws at the ground, impatient. She is unsure here, at the last, at this precipice. One step forward – or several – and she'll expose herself, take herself out of hiding and into the light of scrutiny once more. Hiding has been difficult, but it has had many perks. No demands have been made of her these last two years. She has been free to laugh, to love, to spend her days sleeping and her nights drinking and making love.

But it has lacked a purpose. She has always thrived with a purpose.

Skyhold will give her purpose. But will it tear even more from her? Purpose makes it impossible to protect those she loves. It doesn't just tear things from her. It tears precious things away from them.

"Who goes there?!"

She sighs. She has hesitated too long, and now the decision has been made for her. Urging her horse forward, she moves to the center of the bridge, her hands up in the air, palms facing the castle in the universal show of peace. Stopping the horse, she raises her voice to be heard over the low howl of the wind as it moves through the tunnels made by the mountaintops.

"I am Damian Hawke! I come at the invitation of Solona Amell and Varric Tethras, and I seek audience with the Inquisitor!"

A/N: I'm back! Here is the sequel to O Seeker Still Seeking! All characters belong to Bioware, except Solona and Zanneth, who are aaaaaaall mine!