Dannarah's eyes stayed shut as consciousness returned her to the waking world. She tried to stir but her limbs were leaden weights that refused to obey her mind's commands. The sound of the wind whistling sharply past the windows was distant and muted. Her mind insisted there was no bed beneath her, that she was suspended over a yawning chasm. Sleep lay heavy on her chest, waiting to drag her back down under into suffocating darkness.
She couldn't remember what she had been dreaming, only that she had been shoved back to wakefulness too quickly. It was one of the bad times, when her mind came back from the Fade to find her body unprepared for it. She knew she could fight it. She was practiced at clearing her mind and calming the panic these episodes always brought. With effort, she could claw her way to full wakefulness and her body would eventually respond. Instead, she let sleep take her down again into the black.
Dannarah wasn't sure how long it had been when she next woke. The darkness behind her closed eyes wasn't quite as dark as before. She knew daylight must be streaming through the windows, well past daybreak, but her eyes stayed shut, this time of her own volition. The lassitude she felt at this waking was only her body's usual contempt towards mornings. Her usual response would be to prod herself with a reminder of what needed to be done.
She couldn't think of a single thing.
So she lay there, letting her mind drift in that sluggish state between sleep and full-wakefulness. She allowed herself to savor that rare state of complete relaxation that sometimes came upon waking. In her sleep her body had found the optimal configuration of limbs, head and torso such that not a single part demanded movement.
Then the effect was spoiled when her body finally registered the temperature of the room and shivered in the chill mountain air. She could feel the bedclothes bunched around her feet, as they were most mornings. The bed was so cold. There was no warm body pressed against her back, no gentle hands to straighten the blankets and draw them around them again for a few tender moments before the day began..
No.
She crushed the thought ruthlessly as she felt her throat begin to tighten, but the peace she felt shattered to jagged pieces. She curled into herself, wrapping her arms around her body as the sharp edge of anger snaked through her gut. She clung to the rage, letting it cut, relishing the pain it brought. The pain soothed her, it burned away the intolerable weakness.
She opened her eyes when she heard a timid knocking on the door.
"Your Worship?" a muffled voice asked through the door.
Dannarah ignored the voice. The qualm she felt at shirking her duty was less easily disregarded. The Inquisition had been built up around the goal of destroying Corypheus and the threat he posed to the world. She had put all her energy towards that, made every decision to those ends. She had shed tears and blood and subjugated nations to achieve it. She had built an organization with a kind of power and influence never before seen in Thedas.
All she wanted now was to walk away. She had no interest in shemlen politics, the squabbles between their countries or the schism between the Chantry and the Circles. Leliana and Josephine had warned her there would be meetings, messages, noble visitors, and worse, parties. She wanted none of it. She pulled the blankets back up and around her shoulders.
The knocking continued for a minute more, then stopped. Dannarah hoped that the long silence that followed meant whoever it had been had given up. She closed her eyes again, focused on the sound of the wind. She imagined she was in an aravel instead of this ridiculously luxurious bedroom. The homesickness that hit her was stronger than it had been in some time, since the earliest days of the Inquisition. She'd never intended to stay. She'd never longed for a life outside of the Dalish clan she'd been born to, she hadn't even imagined one until...
"Ar lasa mala revas. You are free," he says and pulls her to her feet. Her face still tingles where his magic had touched her.
He gazes at her so intensely she has to look away. She wonders what he sees in her face, bare now of the marks that graced them for so long. The new knowledge of their ancient meaning sits in her gut unpleasantly. She wonders how she will feel the first time she looks in a mirror and finds them gone.
"You are so beautiful," he finally says. His voice is almost reverent.
She looks up and smiles. He draws her into his arms and kisses her. The sweet pain that bursts in her chest chases away her turmoil. She can face any future that has him in it. She holds him closer, feels him respond. Then suddenly he stills. He breaks away and looks at her, a new hardness in his face. A cold dread washes over her and douses the sweet ache. It's the feeling of looking over a precipice and being certain that gravity alone will pull you over the edge.
"And I am sorry. I distracted you from your duty." His voice is low and tight. "It will never happen again." He speaks with finality.
She can barely understand the words. The edges of her vision grow dimmer, but his face comes into sharper focus. Pain there, but also resolve. She says his name questioningly, no other words will come.
He shakes his head. Her arms feel heavy and she lets them drop away from him. He takes a step back.
"Please, vhenan."
The endearment is so at odds with his other words it sparks an ember of anger to life. How can he speak of love and then do this?
"Tell me you don't care." She pushes the words past the tightness in her throat, daring him to deny her.
"I can't do that."
The words cut, making her anger burn hotter. She shoves him.
"Tell me I was some casual dalliance so I can call you a cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch and move on."
She pushes him again and again, lashing out with her hands when her words fail to ease her pain.
He doesn't fight back, he just stares at her with mournful eyes and absorbs her rage, but that only makes everything worse.
She feels the tears gathering in her eyes and turns her back on him. She won't let him see.
"I'm sorry."
The pain in his voice hurts to hear. Her answering pain makes her anger burn hotter, but still, the tears spill over.
She walks away without looking back.
The memory was a raw, open wound she could never resist probing. She came back to this moment again and again, and flogged herself with it.
He shakes his head. Her arms feel heavy and she lets them drop away from him. He takes a step back.
"Please, vhenan."
Her mind reels in confusion. What happened? Why now? The questions crowding her chest threaten to stop her breath.
"Tell me why. Make me understand." She tries to say it without begging.
"I can't do that."
She deserves a reason. She needs one. That selfish bastard.
"There must be some reason."
He only stares at her, silent, with endless sorrow in his eyes.
Dannarah pulled one of the pillows to her chest and held it tightly.
She says his name questioningly. He shakes his head.
"Don't do this." She begs. It hurts to beg. It hurts less than his words.
"Please, vhenan."
She hears the pain in his voice. He doesn't want to do this. So why?
"Please, I love you."
Each iteration made her anger burn hotter but the outcome is always the same. His words never change. They can't, she has only memory to interrogate, to plead with. There were no answers here. There never would be.
She struggled upright, throwing the blankets aside violently, her breath ragged in her chest. She scrubbed her hands through her hair and rubbed her eyes hard before the traitorous moisture could seep out. When she clenched her hands she felt the familiar, tingling sting of the Anchor and with it, the sting of a different resentment. She'd been destined for a different life. The Anchor had changed everything. A small, foolish part of her had expected the Anchor to disappear once Corypheus was dead. It had been his ritual that created the magic. The Breach was sealed and the relic he had used was broken. Why was it still here? Would she carry this mark for the rest of her life? Perhaps she would, now that the one person who might have had a chance of removing it was gone...
No.
He wasn't the only one who knew ancient elven secrets. She didn't need him. She had drunk from the Well. In time, she would learn to wrest the knowledge she needed from it.
The knocking at her door came again, this time more forcefully. The voice that accompanied it was more insistent, and the heavy accent immediately revealed her besieger's identity.
"Come in, Lady Montilyet," she called. She wasn't above frightening servants, but Josephine had a knack for brushing off even her rudest behavior. Though never outright insubordinate, she also had a knack for somehow refusing to do what you said while making it sound as if she agreed with you.
The Antivan diplomat bustled in with her ever-present bundle of papers. "I beg your pardon, Inquisitor Lavellan," she started to say, then stopped when she saw Dannarah sitting in bed. "Goodness, you're not even dressed. Are you well? Shall I send for someone?"
"That won't be necessary," Dannarah said. She had no intention of discussing the reason her mood was so sour. She needed some sort of diversion, so she said, "I'm just recovering from the festivities last night."
"Was there something wrong with the food? The drinks? I knew I shouldn't have hired a new caterer so late!"
Her diversion had backfired. She couldn't even remember what had been served at the celebration. She had stayed just long enough to satisfy etiquette before retreating to her quarters.
"The drinks were fine," she said.
"I hope you're not just saying that." Josephine was not reassured. "You're not, are you?"
"Everything was wonderful, Josephine," she said, trying to put as much sincerity in her voice as possible. She couldn't have cared less about the catering but flattery was the quickest way to move Josephine off this inane subject. "Perhaps next time the food and drink should be less delicious, then I won't be tempted to overindulge."
"Oh, good," Josephine replied, the worry on her face clearing. "You deserve to enjoy your victory. Still, there is so much to do."
While she spoke, Josephine rifled through the closet, making offended sniffing sounds while she pawed through the offerings. She must have found something up to her standards at last because she pulled some clothes from the closet and laid them on the bed. It wasn't the stiff, formal jacket and she'd been stuffed into for the soirée at the Winter Palace, but it was her second-best set of robes, the ones Josephine and Vivienne had insisted she purchase for meeting nobles. Dannarah scowled at them.
"I hope you don't expect me to wear those," Dannarah said, eying the clothes with distaste.
"The nobles are practically beating down our doors," Josephine said with an unseemly amount of excitement. "I've been holding them off all morning but you must speak to them soon."
"Why should I speak to any of them?"
Josephine's eyebrows rose practically to her hairline. "You can't be serious!"
"I'm perfectly serious."
"You're the Inquisitor."
"The Breach is sealed. Corypheus is dead. Are not the goals of the Inquisition satisfied?"
"It is not so simple. Corypheus is gone, yes, but many of his attempts to sow chaos were successful. A new emperor's succession leads to a substantial realignment of power even under the best of circumstances," Josephine said, chuckling ruefully. "The circumstances here, well, they are...quite complicated. Orlais is in a perilous position. Gaspard will not meekly accept Briala's rise to power. They will spend the next few years waging a private war against one another. That instability in Orlais means increased friction with Fereldan, particularly given Gaspard's open ambitions towards them. Briala may be helpful in curbing his ambitions there, but her open agitation for elf rights will severely disrupt the rest of the current aristocracy. Meanwhile, the aftermath of the Circle rebellions and the continuing refugee crisis is a source of instability for all of Southern Thedas."
"What has the Inquisition to do with any of this?"
"When you accepted the the title of Inquisitor you declared the Inquisition would restore order, did you not?"
"I did what was necessary to defeat Corypheus. Beyond that, the Inquisition has no function."
"Do you truly think we can dismantle the Inquisition just like that?" Josephine snapped her fingers. "I have spent the last year insuring that the Inquisition became such a crucial entity that no one could afford to ignore us. Removing our forces and agents suddenly would be crippling."
"Very well, if the Inquisition, cannot be dismantled so easily, there is still no reason I must remain as Inquisitor."
"It must be you! You are the Herald of Andraste, you—"
"I am not the Herald," Dannarah interrupted vehemently. "How many times must I say—"
"You can say it until you run out breath, I'm afraid. You defeated a would-be god. No matter what you insist, the people will ask themselves, 'Who else could have done so, except one touched by the Maker?'"
"Mythal had more to do with our victory than the Maker. If the Chantry is looking for divine providence, they should look to my people's gods for it."
Josephine grimaced slightly, "That seems...unlikely."
"Exactly. I am inconveniently elven. I'm certain in time human historians will do to me what was done to Ameridan. Perhaps once Leliana is Divine, she—"
"The Divine has great influence, but her sphere of influence is limited. The Inquisition is not affiliated with any one nation, and therefore has a vastly longer reach. We are seen by many as, if not a disinterested party, as close to a neutral one as there may be. We have the chance to forge a lasting peace. And though you may not believe it, in the eyes of the world, you are the Inquisition."
Dannarah rubbed her wrists, for a fleeting moment she thought she felt the cold steel of Cassandra's shackles again.
"There must be restitution for the destruction in the Dales. Many noble families lost estates to—"
"—the Freemen of the Dales, not Emperor Gaspard's armies."
Dannarah suppressed a sigh and shifted in her seat, trying to find a part of her backside that had not grown numb over the long hours in this ridiculous chair. She slid down a little and propped her head up with an arm against the armrest. A soft cough on her right drew her attention. Josephine tightened her mouth and widened her eyes slightly in a subtle yet nonetheless dire warning. Slouching was not dignified. Dannarah been told this on several occasions. She ignored the look. Her patience was running dangerously thin.
They'd been talking in circles for weeks, or so it seemed to her. Josephine assured her progress was being made. She seemed to be describing a completely different set of negotiations. Diplomats. All the while she was stuck in this intolerably ostentatious throne. Appearances were important in The Game, Josephine had said. The throne symbolized the power of the Inquisition, it loomed above them all and by extension, lent her presence the weight of that power. She didn't see why it couldn't do that and be comfortable to sit in.
"—no mere forest bandits, but deserters from the armies—"
"—from the Royal Army. Unfortunately, under Celene's hand unsavory elements were allowed to flourish in the ranks. The Chevaliers that followed Gaspard were of only the highest moral quality—"
Dannarah had no patience for The Game. The shems would settle matters more quickly without all the posturing, the double-speak, the sly insults and false flattery. The only purpose they served was for entertainment, so The Game was an appropriate moniker. Josephine clearly relished it, and with Leliana gone, she turned to Dannarah each evening to dissect the thrusts and ripostes of the day's verbal sparring match. Rehashing a discussion that had been hard enough to sit through the first time was a special kind of torment. She unfairly wondered if Josephine was punishing her.
"I do adore the heady mix of power, intrigue, danger and sex that permeates these events."
He leans casually against the marble statue with a secretive smile. The relish in his voice is unmistakable and she envies him. He seems at ease, while she feels strung tight enough to snap. The fabric of her formal uniform is heavy and oppressively hot. The haste with which the tailors were forced to produce it is evident in how the collar pinches her neck and the sleeves ride up. The pressure of so many bodies around her and the incessant murmuring of their voices have rubbed her senses raw.
"You seem more comfortable with a grand Orlesian ball than I would have expected," she says, her apprehension flattening her tone.
"I have seen countless such displays in my journeys in the Fade," he says and his smile sharpens with some emotion she cannot name. "The powerful have always been the same, only the costumes change."
He wears his finery with an outward ease that makes it seem like he was born to it. She finds that thought jarring. He makes no sense to her here. More than anything, she wishes they were back in the library at Skyhold. She realizes she is grinding her teeth and makes a conscious effort to relax her jaw. He moves and turns his body slightly to shield her from the crowd and slips his hand into hers. The feel of his cool fingers releases one thread of tension within her.
A swell of muffled music comes through the closed doors of the Grand Ballroom.
"Do you have any interest in dancing?" she asks impulsively. Josephine and Leliana had drilled her for days in court manners and the only part of it she had enjoyed to any extent had been the dance lessons.
"A great deal." The pleasure in his smile warms the cold knot in her belly. "Though dancing with an elven apostate would win you few favors with the court."
He probably would have enjoyed this.
The thought was an unwelcome intrusion and it stoked the anger that always seemed to be simmering below the surface of late. Solas was gone, and that was that. Daydreams were beneath her. She straightened her posture in her chair and turned her attention back to bickering envoys. By the gods, they were still talking.
"Perhaps these nobles should instead put their energies towards stopping the continued reprisals against the elves of Halamshiral—"
"—an issue dear to Gaspard's heart, I'm sure—"
"—all disputes fall under the authority of the newly invested Marquis of the Dales and—"
"—who will no doubt treat these noble families fairly against the spurious accusations of her fellow knife-ear peasants."
The slur dropped like a stone into the rushing flow of words and everyone went still. The red-faced envoy stiffened as he heard himself speak and remembered that she was present. Dannarah turned her cold gaze upon him, let the anger that burned her seep into her expression. Let him believe he was the cause of it. She saw his jaw clench defiantly even though the rest of his expression was hidden by one of the the gaudy masks in fashion in Orlais. Her hackles rose in response. The memory of the Winter Palace brought back the sneering faces of the nobles who called her "rabbit" with disrespect. They hadn't known was she was capable of, then.
So. Despite all her power, there were some for whom her ears still mattered. Let them remember exactly why they were here, torturing her with their wretched, petty disputes. She turned her hand up and let the Anchor flare to greater life. Sickly green light spilled out over the faces of the assemblage with a snap of sound. They all recoiled from the display.
"I'm certain, your Lordship, you did not intend to insult Marquis Briala," Josephine said quickly, forestalling any further reaction. "Such a mistake must be due to the late hour. I believe dinner will be served shortly, perhaps it would be best if we ended our session here for the day."
Dannarah seethed with resentment, but at Josephine's insistent glance, she nodded curtly and gestured a dismissal. She allowed the Anchor to return to quiescence and the crackling hum emanating from it faded. Chairs screeched as they were pushed back from the table hastily and a nervous babble lurched to life as the group dispersed.
Josephine leaned over the arm of Dannarah's chair and murmured, "Very clumsy of the baron. It will be much simpler now to wring concessions out of the Dales nobles after word of his misstep makes it back to Marquis Briala. I shan't be surprised if he is sent home in disgrace before the week is through."
"I'm glad to hear there's a political upside to being insulted in my own stronghold, Lady Montilyet."
Josephine's flush was evident even under her dark skin. "I apologize, your Worship, it was insensitive of me to—"
"It's fine, Josie." She waved away her words. She wasn't truly upset with Josephine, or even that arse from Orlais. There was little love lost between City Elves and the Dalish and Briala was more capable than she was of answering his insult.
"I suppose I should rejoice in anything that ends these damned negotiations more quickly." Dannarah stood and stretched her aching back. "It's been an unbearable day. I need to get out of this chair for awhile."
"Of course, my Lady."
Dannarah rearranged her features into the neutral mask she had eventually learned to adopt for these public appearances and strode through the throng of people still lingering in the great hall. The number of retainers each envoy "required" would have been comical if it didn't mean constantly having people underfoot, eating her food and drinking her wine. They all parted hurriedly to let her pass, and she did her best to ignore the whispers that trailed in her wake. If she had thought Skyhold was crowded before, the number of people was practically oppressive now. She wasn't sure where she was going, she just needed to be away from the hall of people with their demands and expectations.
Dannarah cursed herself silently when she found herself walking into the rotunda. She told herself to turn around, to walk out again, but as always, she couldn't make herself do it. Instead she stalked around the room, glaring up at the frescoes on the wall until she got to the end, the one he had never finished. This was not the first time she had found herself coming back here to stare at the faint lines of that rough sketch. All his broken promises made manifest. Sometimes she thought if she stared long enough, she would find her answers. She hated herself for it.
She let her hand drift up to touch the painted walls. The images were supposed to depict her deeds, but she barely recognized herself there. The stark colors and stylized figures had always unsettled her. Perhaps that should have been a sign. Was this how he saw the world? Had she ever actually known him?
There had been a time before the cursed Anchor, before the Inquisition, when she had been certain what kind of life she would lead. She had never desired power. Not the power of command, at any rate. She had sought magical power, had been desperate to learn all she could. There was wonder in it, and joy. The hunger to learn, to know, to rediscover the lost past of her people had been the whole of her ambition. How had that turned into an endless parade of meetings and parties? A constant war of influence, favors, gossip and back-stabbing? She should simply walk away, leave the Inquisition behind and damn the consequences. There were too many like Lord what's-his-name who resented having her preside over them as much as she resented having to preside over them. Her longing for the life she'd known was so strong it was almost a physical pain. Why was she still here? She should go home.
She snatched her hand away from the wall and angrily flexed the hand that bore the Anchor. The gesture had become habit over the last year, like probing a sore tooth. It hurt, but some part of her welcomed the uncomplicated physical pain. It was a distraction. She turned to leave, but stopped when the door to the hall swung open. Her emotions still raw, she was utterly unprepared to see Keeper Istimaethoriel enter.
"Hahren," Dannarah said, her voice wobbling a little. A silly, credulous part of her wanted to believe her homesickness had summoned the Keeper. The urge to run to her and kneel at her feet was powerful, and profoundly embarrassing. She was no longer a child seeking her teacher's approval. In her current state of agitation, she might have abandoned dignity and done it anyhow. The look on Istimaethoriel's face stopped her cold.
"Danna, what have you done?"
Dannarah recoiled from the accusation in her voice.
"The Herald of Andraste," Istimaethoriel continued, "I thought it shemlen lies, another story they tell themselves to diminish our people. I never believed you would abandon our gods."
"I have always denied being the Herald," she protested.
"Your face is bare. Has your new power taught you to be ashamed of your people? How is it even possible?"
Dannarah rubbed the skin on her forehead where Ghilan'nain's symbols had been and winced. She was appalled to realize that she had grown so accustomed to their absence that she had forgotten they were gone. She knew what it must look like to the Keeper. The vallaslin were what marked her as one of the Dalish, and she had let hers be removed.
"Keeper," she said, struggling to keep her voice even. "I have not forgotten who I am, nor am I ashamed. But yes, in my time with the Inquisition, I have learned many things. The vallaslin... they are not what we thought..."
"And from whence comes this new knowledge?" Istimaethoriel asked witheringly. "From your human mages, who are subjects of their Chantry? You know the Chantry twists all knowledge to serve its own ends."
"No, an elven mage, not trained by the Circle or the Dalish. A powerful dreamer. There is knowledge in the Fade for one who knows how to look."
"A flat ear? They are blind to their own past. What could one know of the true Elvhen?" Istimaethoriel asked patronizingly. Dannarah flinched at the slur. If there was no love lost between her and other elves, she had at least stopped thinking of other elves as "flat ears" long ago. The reminder of her people's own biases stung.
"He knew more than we do, it seems," she snapped, her careful composure slipping. Her instinct to defend Solas left her feeling flustered. She shouldn't care what Istimaethoriel thought of him.
"And what did this Dreamer tell you that would make you doubt your own Keeper?"
She opened her mouth to reply, but found she could not tell her. She wasn't sure what she believed anymore. Before, she had been proud to wear the vallaslin to show her devotion to the elven gods. To know they had originally been slave markings...that the ancient elves had enslaved their own people...it had almost undone her. She was mortified by how easily he had made her doubt everything she had been taught. Had she abandoned her people? For a man who had abandoned her? Why should she still believe anything he had told her?
She saw the anger and betrayal on Istimaethoriel's face and shame rose up in her throat and almost choked her. Dannarah had the sudden urge to beg forgiveness and ask Istimaethoriel to give the vallaslin back to her. The Dalish saw the vallaslin as part of their identity. They were a badge of honor. Who was he to say they weren't?
She could undo what Solas had done and go home. An unexpected flare of sorrow at the thought stopped her.
"I look at you and see what you truly are. And you deserve better than what those cruel marks represent."
The memory came back to her in a confusing rush of feelings. He wouldn't want her to wear the vallaslin again. It shouldn't matter what he would want. He would not be here to see it. She shoved the grief that eddied up at the thought down again. No, it didn't matter what he thought, but she would still know. Her reverence for history meant she could not turn away from the truth, no matter how painful. Despite everything that had passed between them, she knew he had not lied. There was so much he could have taught the Dalish, and so much more they could have discovered together. She could almost taste the bitterness in her mouth and swallowed hard. She still had the Well. She would do it alone.
"What he said doesn't matter. I have seen wonders, with my own eyes," she finally said. "There's so much I would share with our people. All I have ever wanted was to preserve our past."
"Is that still all you want?" Istimaethoriel asked, gesturing broadly. "I see you here in this place with your bare face and the trappings of human power all around you and I wonder."
"You think I want this?" she asked furiously and turned her palm out. Even in its quiescent state the Anchor scintillated eerily. Istimaethoriel's eyes widened fractionally and Dannarah was embarrassed by the surge of satisfaction she felt at the woman's discomfort.
"Why did you come to Skyhold, Keeper?"
"I came with a delegation from Wycome to discuss the disposition of the Inquisition forces still fortifying the city. The other cities in the Free Marches have pledged peace, but I do not trust them to keep their word once the Inquisition withdraws."
The tiny, stupid hope that the Keeper had come to demand she finally be returned to the clan died. Dannarah's mouth twisted in resentment. She had not come here for her First, she had come for the Inquisitor.
"You condemn my position, but still wish the protection of my power?"
"Do you wield the power or does it wield you?"
"My face may be bare, but I am still one of the Elvhenan. Never shall I submit."
The Anchor crackled and sparked briefly with the vehemence of her vow. Dannarah curled her fingers into a fist around it and stifled a wince as the usual ache shot up her arm to her elbow before subsiding again. Istimaethoriel's expression softened slightly and Dannarah saw she had not fooled her Keeper.
"Ir arabelas, da'len," Istimaethoriel said and Dannarah's eyes prickled at hearing her use the diminutive. "I did not come just for Wycome. I did not know how hard it would be to see you here, so different, knowing if I had not sent you to the Conclave I would never have lost you."
"I always meant to return home, hahren," Dannarah said, her voice breaking. "I still wish to. Let someone else deal with the shems, I tire of their politics."
Istimaethoriel's reached out and laid hand against Dannarah's forehead, stroking gently with her thumb. It was the gesture she had used to soothe Dannarah when she was a child. Dannarah leaned into the gesture and the familiar comfort it offered. She knew it was undignified but she didn't care.
"What home, Danna?" Istimaethoriel asked gently. "The clan is not as you remember it. None of us have weathered this storm unchanged."
They broke apart when the door opened again to show a small contingent of people clustered on the other side. Dannarah recognized Mari, one of the other Dalish mages from her clan. The bare-faced elven man and human woman were unfamiliar to her. They both wore the badge of Wycome on their clothing.
"Inquisitor Lavellan, excuse the interruption," Mari said, bowing deeply. Dannarah found the obeisance from someone she'd grown up with surprisingly uncomfortable. Surprised, she was terrified to realize, because she had grown accustomed to it from others.
"Keeper Istimaethoriel, the dinner hour will begin shortly and the steward wishes to show us to our rooms beforehand."
"My thanks, First," Istimaethoriel said.
Dannarah felt a pang of sorrow to hear Mari called First. She stiffened and let her features freeze into her Inquisitor's mask. All her power and influence, but the title she wanted most was lost to her.
"I will speak to the Commander about the matter in question," she said formally. "Doubtless the disposition of Inquisition forces will be a topic of great interest to many parties in the days to come."
"Ma serannas, Inquisitor," Istimaethoriel said. "Dareth shiral."
Dannarah turned her face away so she wouldn't have to watch them bow again and walk away. The door to her old life was unequivocally closed to her.
"Augh, you didn't tell her! I was waiting for you to tell her!"
Dannarah looked to see Sera lurking in the hallway that lead out onto the battlements. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the sack Sera had slung over her shoulder. "Sera, didn't Josephine ban you from main hall after the incident with the snakes?"
"Only during the talky bits. Besides, she'd have to catch me," Sera said with a sniggering laugh. "So why didn't you tell her?"
"Tell who what?"
"Prissy tree-breeches the real reason your elfy dealies are gone, about how Solas said the Dalish are stupid. You just let her piss on you about how you're not elfy enough when they're the ones..."
"Enough, Sera," Dannarah said with a warning edge in her voice. "They made a mistake, but the vallaslin mean something to them. I'm not selfish enough to take that meaning away."
Sera made a rude noise in the direction the others had departed, but her eyes were thoughtful when she turned back to Dannarah.
"Do you really want to go back to living like a tit in the woods?" she asked.
"Why shouldn't I? The clan was my home."
"Because it's stupid, and you're not stupid!"
"More stupid than rotting in meetings on that unbearable throne?"
"Throne needs a butt. They'll just stick someone else in it if you leave. And I like your butt." Sera rolled her eyes at Dannarah's expression. "Not like that! Everyone's still crazy. You've got to fix it, yeah? Those noble pricks will just fuck it up if you let 'em."
"I fixed the Breach. I don't care what the nobles do to each other now."
"Say that all you like, it won't make it true."
Dannarah glared at her, but Sera was unrepentant.
"You care. Oh, not about the nobles, maybe, but you care about the little people. You try to act as snobby as the rest of the Dalish and pretend only 'real elves' matter, but you care."
Dannarah said nothing and Sera sighed and rolled her eyes.
"Fine, then. Stay for them," she said grudgingly. "The Dalish. You stopped 'em from pushing your clan around before, yeah?"
Dannarah's mouth quirked slightly at the expression on Sera's face.
"Are you suggesting it's worth caring about the Dalish?" she asked, needling a little.
Sera folded her arms and scuffed one toe on the ground, "Didn't say I cared. But you care. That means...something."
Dannarah's smile widened slightly and Sera scowled. "Stop looking at me like that! Oh forget it!"
Dannarah glanced away from Sera's glowering face and her eyes landed on the frescoes again. She looked away quickly but her smile faded. Sera's glower melted into concern.
"You never say it, but you miss him, don't you?"
Dannarah shook her head mutely but Sera's face had a knowing look.
"Could ask Cullen for one his dummies. Dress it up like Solas, put a bunch of arrows in it." Sera made a noise that was halfway between a giggle and a snort. "Bet that'd cheer you right up."
Sera paused when Dannarah didn't laugh at her joke. "Unless...you're hoping he'll come back?"
"He's not coming back, and I don't want him to," Dannarah said firmly. She almost sounded convincing.
"Right." Sera clearly wasn't convinced.
The tolling of the dinner hour rang out from the bell tower. Above them, the sound of shuffling feet and muted voices could be heard as the library emptied. Dannarah didn't move and Sera waited a moment more before sighing and leaving her alone.
After the echoes died down, Dannarah returned her gaze to the unfinished fresco. It still hurt to look at, but she was too wrung out for rage. All that was left was the pain. And the truth. She could choose to let her anger go. She knew it was the only way she would heal. Move on. Except...the ugly truth was, she didn't want to move on. She laid her forehead against the unfinished image and closed her eyes. A place his hands had touched.
"You are so beautiful."
His mouth is soft on hers, his hands on her back are warm as he pulls her against him. The sweet yearning makes her breath hitch and her whole body vibrates. She pulls him down to the damp earth and he chuckles and lets her...