Lavellan

Da'len,

I would not trouble you normally. You have enough on your shoulders, fighting ancient Tevinter magisters while representing your people. Unfortunately, the rifts that plague this land have spread chaos and fear along with them, and many seek to take advantage of it.

Bandits are attacking Clan Lavellan. The raiders are well armed and heavily armored, and they come in numbers our hunters cannot match. We had settled in a small unclaimed valley not far from Wycome, a safe place with few rifts—but these bandits may force us to seek a new home. If your Inquisition can help, you might save our clan much hardship.

Dareth shiral,

Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan

I hold the letter in my hand, the parchment warm by now from my fingers and palms. This must be the tenth time I've read this plea for help, and yet again all I can do is sit in my chambers here in Skyhold and wait for Josephine to bring back word from the Duke of Wycome. It has been a week. I know ravens fly fast, but even they have limits, and there are further complications, of course. There is so much I don't know, and if I could only just be there. If only I could stop being the Inquisitor for two weeks to ride back to them and help...

Just as I'm folding the letter and placing it back in my desk, I hear the light step of a page ascending the stone steps into my chamber. Surely they've come to fetch me about any number of other things – rifts opening in the Hinterlands or undead plaguing villagers in Crestwood again. It's probably that, and so I try to swallow down my thundering heart.

The page remains at the top of the stairs, a timid looking young man, and I'm told that I'm needed at the war table. Leliana and Josephine both have word on the operations that have been delegated to them, and they would like to discuss them with me. I nod, and instruct the page to let them know I'll be there presently. I could have gone with him, but for some reason I can't move from my desk. My hands are chilly and I feel weak.

I had asked Josephine to ask the Duke of Wycome for aid. A human being with power in the Free Marches. Was that a mistake? Am I being racist with my worries? Times are changing, and my clan has always tried to be on good terms with human beings. My stomach hurts, and I slide my hands down my lean torso, feeling the fine material of my tan attire. This is the finery of a human position. Am I just a puppet? Were they right, back in Val Royeaux?

Stop it. Whatever has happened has already happened, and I can't undo it by sitting up here and refusing to know of it.

Somehow it hurts to rise up from my chair, as if my body is aching not to go down there. Every step down feels like I'm falling into a void, all alone. Though what's worse is the chatter of the growing refugees that mill about the great hall. They all sound so cheerful, expressing their relief that the Inquisition, and its Inquisitor, will save them.

It feels like a long walk from the great hall to the war table chambers, and I glance at Josephine's empty desk, feeling a pang and a chill slither down my spine. My breath shivers as I draw it in, and I take a minute before finally pushing open the wicket door. My amber eyes lift to my advisers, who wait for me. Cullen seems focused on his latest task, asking Leliana her opinion on various options, but Josephine looks preoccupied. When her dark eyes lift to mine, her expression changes and walls off, the pleasant demeanor she reserves for dignitaries replacing it. My heart sinks at that.

Out of some feeling of contrariness, I ask Leliana to report her findings first. It's some operation to do with ferreting out information in Orlais about some human noble or another. It should matter to me. All of these things should matter, and I try to fake taking it seriously. I listen to her recommendations to her satisfaction, and assure her that when the next step in the process comes along, I'll consider taking advantage of her resources once more. That takes all of ten minutes.

Finally, I look to Josephine, and ask her to report back on news from Wycome. In some distant, cold part of my mind, I almost admire how steady she is as she reads aloud the brief letter from the Duke himself:

Ambassador Montilyet,

I regret that my help for your Dalish allies came too late to be of use. By the time my forces arrived in the area, the Dalish had been scattered or killed, and there seems little left of their clan.

I understand your Inquisitor must be feeling the loss of his clan. Please accept these gifts and my promise of future help whenever it is necessary.

Yours,

Duke Antoine of Wycome

There's silence in the chamber, all three ambassadors looking at me, perhaps with pity. For some reason I'm just frozen, looking down at the pieces on the map, like all of this is just some sort of game. I swallow and discover that I'm talking again, selecting another operation for Josephine to focus on, this time in Orlais. She smiles and seems grateful to be put to work again, and the other advisers carry on, because they have to.

With operations to occupy them appropriately, I dismiss them and leave the war table. This reality seems unreal, and I just walk. I should go back up to my chambers, to give myself time to process the loss, but I don't. I should go to the stables, tack up one of the horses there, and strike out on my own for a while. But I can't – I would be missed, and I'd have to explain why I've left without an escort.

The castle itself is barely put together, and many of the towers are filled with debris, or furniture covered in dusty sheeting. There's a tower in the keep, near to where Varric introduced his friend Hawke. Or at least I think so. Skyhold is more labyrinthine than it first appears, after all.

The tower itself is quiet and dark. Thankfully the door leading into it has been mended, and there's a sign up to let construction crews know what work needs to be done, and what materials need to be ordered. They surely don't have to work on it today, so I take one of my lockpicks and fiddle with the mechanism from the inside, assuring that only Sera or Varric could possibly get in. Or, I suppose, Iron Bull, if he took an axe to the door.

There are a few levels here, connected by ladders, and I ascend the one leading up to the next floor. I've always liked ladders – climbing them is like climbing trees. The creak of the wood, the feeling of rising up above the weights of the earthly plane, and the promise of privacy and shelter – I need it, all of it. Every rung makes me realize how clammy my hands are, my dark-skinned fingers curling and pulling me up, until at last I get to the second story, which is in as much disrepair as the first.

Here, at least, I have a moment, in case someone needs me. Which they always seem to.

I find a dark place to sit back against the wall, and I just look at the dusty rays of sunlight filtering down from the floor above. There isn't a thought in my head, and I'm numb all over, my fingers cold in my lap as they intertwine. The mark on my left hand pulses like it usually does, tingling, but I ignore it. It's not stopped doing that since I'd closed the breach, and perhaps it will never stop.

"The tingling reminds you that you're alive" comes a far-away voice on the other side of the room. When I look over, I notice someone sitting across from me against the opposite wall, hugging their knees, with a wide brimmed hat hiding their face. Cole.

At first I just wish he'd go away. If I don't think about this, it won't hurt. It will just be another detail, like those we lost at Haven, or those currently dying to the demons, the Venatori, and the Red Templars.

His gentle voice interrupts with "They aren't just another detail. They were your family."

Slowly my eyes open, yellow like a big cat's, and I glare at him, my lips tense. I want to scream at him and tell him to leave, to never come back, to get out of my head. But I know that we need him. Those who are suffering need him. "Please, Cole... I'll be fine" I mutter, my neck, shoulders, and jaws aching with tension.

Suddenly he's standing right in front of me, a lanky human silhouette that slowly crouches, then softly sinks to his knees. "Please let me help you. I won't tell anyone." His blue eyes, watery and hidden by his thatchy blond hair, flick and get a far off look as he intones "Run, child. Climb the tree and stay quiet. Humans come, angry soldiers, demanding to know why we're here. Mother's struck and knocked down. Heart pounding. Soldiers laughing. Stupid knife ears."

I look down and draw up my knees, my stomach like ice and cramping.

Cole's head tilts, and he winces. "Moving again. Aravels, Halla. No trees, bad hunting. Mother dies from illness, leaves amulet as an heirloom. Try to sell pelts in the next town. Mugged and robbed instead. Amulet is gone. Everything is gone, but the Clan endures."

"Cole, please..." I beg in a whisper, already feeling tears sliding down my cheeks.

He blinks and looks at me, like a puppy who isn't sure if he's misbehaved or not. I know he means well, and he is new to this sort of existence. "Do you want me to stop?" he asks gently.

Do I? I feel like I'm trapped, packed tightly in a tiny cage, with no room to move or lessen the ache I feel.

"You carry so much pain inside you..." he muses sadly. "I'm here to help. To heal what hurts. For you, most of all."

My voice, usually deep, cracks as I ask "How could you make this better?" I feel my face crumple, and I'm ashamed by it, which only makes it worse.

His fingers are warm as they touch the back of my hand, and somehow that surprises me. I suppose I've been thinking of him as a spirit, or a ghost. Something dead and not real.

"You did what you thought was right. You tried to help them. You had no way of knowing that the Duke of Wycome would fail you, or had malice in his heart."

My eyes lift to his slowly. "Tell me about his malice" I demand softly.

Cole closes his eyes. "He's far away. But the bandits weren't real bandits. There's a sickness affecting only humans, and he is scared. He needed a solution. Elven plague. He believes things to be fixed now." When he opens his eyes, even he seems distraught by what he's just said. "He had them killed, and they had done nothing wrong. Why would he do that?"

I have to clench my jaw and grit my teeth, because my first reflex is to spit out Because he's human. I know that's not right – not all humans are that way. It's wrong to think that, and things will never get better if I cling to hatred like that. But I've been hurt so many times, as have my people. We are alone in this whole world, a dying race that is ignored, vilified, and abused until we have the decency all to die quietly.

My eyes harden, and my hands ball into fists, my knuckles now pressing to the wooden floor on either side of my hips. Neither Sera nor Solas feel the way I do. Both of them blame our people for this, though they blame them for different things. It feels the same to me as a soldier blaming a maiden for her ruination, only because she wore an appealing frock. I'm angry with them too. I'm angry with everyone.

"Are you angry with me?" Cole asks timidly.

I look up at him, furious, but not at him, and he wilts beneath my gaze. "No, not with you, Cole" I growl. For a while I had taken to daggers, but had set them aside for use of my bow again, feeling it better suited to the skills of my typical escorts. "I have... to go and do something, Cole. I need to go and do it alone. I need you to help me keep this a secret."

He fidgets, drawing circles in the dust on the floor. "You will be gone for one week. If you want to keep this secret, it cannot be a secret to two others." There's a glance up at me from under my hat. "Who do you trust to keep your secret?"

Who can I trust? Varric is good at keeping secrets, but I'm not sure if that extends to the secrets of other people. Iron Bull would be sympathetic, but he's an admitted spy for the Qunari – what I do will reported back to them and, through Leliana, back to the Inquisiton. Sera and Solas don't get to come, because I know that if they spouted one word of mockery I would kill them. I'm not in a mood for their opinions right now. Cassandra is too upstanding. Vivienne would probably be recognized. That leaves only two, and they will have to do. "Dorian and Blackwall. Please find them, and ask them to meet me in the tavern tonight. If they ask, mention the Storm Coast."

Cole nods, and just like that he's gone.

After sunset, I head to the tavern for an ale and some dinner and take it upstairs to the second story. Sera wanders out of her quarters, a solarium filled with pillows and all manner of oddment, and she seems somewhat delicate around me when she spots me. I just attend to my dinner, nodding at her in greeting to try and maintain some semblance of normalcy, but she swings by the table awkwardly.

"Hey, so..." she begins, and I lift my eyes back to her. "I uh... heard about your clan."

"Did you." My words are chilly, and I look away, not wanting to have this discussion.

"Yeah. Not much of a secret. Josephine feels like absolute shite. Just wanted to say that we know you're a person, you know?" Her weight shifts back and forth on her feet, and she flushes when I glance at her. "Right. Um... I should probably fuck off right about now." I'm relieved when she moves away and heads downstairs, and despite the singing of the bard, I can hear a quiet conversation between Sera and Iron Bull, ending with him grunting "Fuck. The poor bastard - like he doesn't deal with enough shit." That makes me feel a sliver less wretched.

Dorian wanders up first, looks around, and spots me sitting in my shadowy corner. He has two drinks in hand, both of them small glasses loaded with a dose each of an amber liquor. I lift an eyebrow at him as he takes a seat and places one of the shot glasses before me, and he smiles. "Put that inside you, my friend."

I can't help myself but chuckle. "Do you know how long I've been waiting to hear you say that, Dorian?"

He just smirks. "Tonight's your lucky night, then. Drink up."

My back ripples with cramp as I sit up straight and toss back what turns out to be whiskey. He tosses back his drink too, grimacing a little even as he laughs at how I cough. "Good show" he husks, clearing his throat before he slips in "A shame about your clan. I'm sorry for your loss."

That surprises me, though the distraction of the whiskey helped. The wetness in my eyes can be explained by the burn, luckily. "Yes, thank you."

He sniffs, and leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest as he loses himself to some thought or another. One of the servers comes by to take my plate and our glasses away, and I just let her go without a word. Usually I try to be friendly with everyone who's come here, from the generals all the way down to the scullery maids – without them, none of this would be possible. Tonight, however, I just want to be left alone to my plotting.

Which reminds me.

"Dorian, I would assume Cole suggested you meet me here"

The mage nods. "The strange creature muttered something about the Storm Coast," he muses, crossing one leg over another. "He's a terrible liar."

I just give him a look, then shift my seat in close to the table, resting my elbows on the surface. "Blackwall's coming, too."

Dorian looks over his shoulder, then smiles. "Yes, I can see that."

My eyes lift, and I note Blackwall ascending the stairs, with Cole following close behind. The Grey Warden sees me and grunts, waving away the server who swings by to attend to the growing party. Cole just watches – I'd imagine that they've all learned to just ignore him by now. When the young human slips away to tend to other patrons, Blackwall takes a seat next to me.

"A shame," he rumbles, not meeting my eyes to give me some privacy despite his nearness.

I nod, not meeting their eyes for a moment. In this moment I know for a fact that I really mean to go through with it, and somehow that lifts a weight from my chest. "I had Cole gather you both so we could discuss something. I have some personal business up north – there's a chance not every member of my clan was destroyed, and I would like the chance to try and find the survivors, and offer them whatever help I can, personally."

The others just nod in silence.

"This isn't an Inquisition affair. You don't have to accompany me if you don't want to. I'm more than capable of handling this on my own, but if I leave without an escort, that will draw attention to this trip. The last thing I want is for word to spread through Orlais and Ferelden that I'm on the move alone. I trust Leliana, but I'd be a fool to think she doesn't have at least one traitor keeping an eye on my movements." I don't mention Iron Bull's affiliations. It's up to him whether he wants to share that information with them.

"Right, so we travel with you as a cover. That's easily done" Blackwall notes.

"Where, exactly, are we going, by the way?" Dorian asks next.

My expression weakens a little, and I look at him apologetically. "I can't tell you. It's just... North. The less you three know, the less others will later."

Across from me, Dorian smirks. "For a Dalish, you're learning to play the game rather well."

Secretly I smile at that, while outside I make a point to look pained and embarrassed by it. "I'd rather be honest with my associates and friends, but that's not the world I live in. Not anymore."

Straight to the point, Blackwall asks "When shall we leave?"

"When can you be ready?" I counter, looking at the three men gathered around.

Cole peeks at me from under his hat. "I'm always ready" he murmurs. Dorian and Blackwall ask for an hour, and that suits me.

I need to prepare my own equipment, after all.

It's been a few days' ride, but we're nearing the lands of Wycome. News of Clan Levallan's destruction is still hot gossip, and I reign in my anger when I hear how happy the local humans are about that. Blackwall does most of the talking, finding out what we need in a local tavern. The runaways, those that had escaped the initial massacre, have all since been tracked down, hunted for sport. There's a ransom for their vallaslins, it would seem, and a princely sum at that. That night we make our way to the site of the massacre.

Seeing it gives me closure. I know every single person that lies dead on the ground by their ruined tents and aravels. The halla have probably been slaughtered and sold at market for meat and pelts. I don't find any valuables either, but I didn't expect to. The four of us spend most of the night burying the dead, and I see to it that each one is buried with an oak staff and a cedar branch, to help them on their way in the afterlife. I also gather acorns and plant one on each burial mound. There are no headstones. No one will remember their names, save for me. Perhaps it is better that we've interred them in a quiet spot in the woods. No one will bother them there.

For the rest of the night we rest quietly. The other three chat off and on about various missions they've been on, and after a while I offer to fill up our waterskins at the stream nearby. The moon is bright, making it more than easy to traverse the woods. The trickling rush of the stream calls me to it, and its silver-edged waters flow deeply enough that it won't be a difficulty to keep silt out of the bags.

I hold each one under the surface, letting it fill up with the pressure from the current, and as I do I catch sight of my moonlit reflection. An elven man looks back at me, with narrow features, golden eyes, bark brown skin, and black hair and lips. I used to think it fashionable to wear my hair off to the side like that, as if the asymmetrical nature of it would highlight how my black vallaslin only covers my left eye.

The marking is in honor of the elven goddess Sylaise, the hearthkeeper. It's said that she gave us fire and showed us how to use it, and gave us the knowledge of healing with both herbs and magic. For a long time I felt my devotion to her was misplaced – I was a hunter. Surely I should have pledged myself to Andruil instead. Now, however, in my role as the Inquisitor, perhaps I had not been wrong. The sky burns, and I must heal it, mustn't I? Perhaps I could have spun a logical tail for any vallaslin I'd chosen. I suppose it doesn't matter now.

I'm on the last waterskin now, holding it under the surface with both hands, and I find that I'm tense. Angry. I'm holding the bag like one might hold a small creature to drown it, and I find that this is all I want to do. In that water is the reflection of the last of Clan Lavellan. I am the last. I'm not good enough to be the last.

All the way back to camp I'm scowling, my eyes dark. The others can see it immediately that something's wrong with me, though Cole ends up being the one to say something first.

"You're hurting more" he wonders, biting his lower lip.

He's not wrong. "I am going to ask you all for a favor. Tonight I'm going for a walk. I will return by dawn. If anyone asks you where I am – say that I have gone for a walk. If they ask you in future what I did this night – tell them that I went for a walk."

Dorian looks a little confused, but Blackwall seems to understand. "Enjoy your stroll then. Mind that you take protection; lots of bandits out there still, looking for trophies."

I duck into my tent and pull on my armor fully, and I slip two daggers into sheathes on my back. The last item I tuck into my pocket is a needle, housed in a vile. The small, metal cylinder is filled with spider venom, just enough for what I need. When I leave the tent, I incline my head to the rest of my party, then slip away, nearly invisible.

Heading towards the Duke's residence is easy. The humans here think so little of the Dalish that they don't know how our hunters move and work. They don't know that walls mean nothing, and that locks mean less than nothing. I'm in his residence within the hour, slipping by sleepy, jaded guards. They aren't in danger, though perhaps they should be. I know that if I want this vengeance, truly want it, I can't indulge in too much violence. I can only allow myself the target, and only quietly.

The Duke himself is fast asleep, his large, lavishly-appointed quarters empty of attendants or guards. His snoring is more than enough to hide the soft sounds I make, letting me walk right up to the bed. I pull out the vile and unstopper it, the needle's head embedded in the cork. The point glistens with a sticky, green ichor, and I press my hand over his mouth as I push the tip of the needle into his neck.

I've hunted with poisons before. I know what spider ichor does, and I know how long it takes to work. The Duke grunts and struggles against me, but I hold him down against the bed, one hand on his mouth and the other on his throat, muffling his cries for help, until at last he settles down and looks at me, paralyzed.

"You know who I am, yes?" I whisper, slowly pulling my hand away. His breathing shakes, and I press a knee to the side of his mattress, looming over him as my smile coils. "Of course you do..."

I pull the dagger by my right shoulder out of its sheath, the blade slender and elegant. A Venatori weapon, lifted from one of their fallen back in the Hinterlands. The Duke's death isn't quick, and the paralytic allows him no escape, only a shaking silence as I dispatch him at my leisure. I'm sure the gods frown upon me, but right now I don't care. The Dalish of old used to hunt humans for sport – surely they can't fault me for choosing such deserving quarry.

Leaving the Duke's chambers is as easy as it was entering them, and as I slip out through the servant's quarters, I drop the Venatori blade down the latrine. Perhaps they'll find it. Perhaps not.

Good to my word I'm back before dawn. The loss of one dagger isn't commented on, and before we set out again I pack away the remaining blade and vial, and set my bow and quiver onto my back once more, also favoring hooded robes in place of my armor when we break camp and head south on horseback.

By the time we arrive at Skyhold, there are already rumors of the Duke's death. Some are shocked, while others say he was a wicked man and deserved it. Of course, I offer no opinion. It would be impolitic for me to do so.

I'm the Inquisitor, after all.

A day or two after our arrival back at the castle, I'm at the war table again with my advisers. Cullen is tasked with taking a small force and seeing to a small tower of mages that have sealed themselves inside, likely as a protective measure against the town around them. Josephine is still working on an assignment to tip the scales here and there in the Orlesian court, so that only our supporters find success in the game, and our detractors mysteriously find their means of influence blocked. Leliana is assigned a mission to gather information near the Emerald Graves, and this is a project that clearly interests her. Not many humans are allowed in there, after all.

Yet when I dismiss them, Leliana remains, looking at the piece set on the map near Wycome. In her gentle hybrid Orlais-Ferelden accent, she coyly notes "Curious how the Duke was mutilated, no?" looking at me from beneath her hood.

"Mutilated?" I ask blandly. "I'd heard that he'd been murdered..."

She gestures dismissively with slight irritation. "Yes, everyone has heard that. What hasn't been shared with the populace is that it looks like his body was used for blood magic. The cuts are precise and placed in the proper way, though it looks like the ritual was interrupted..." she narrows her eyes at me "...or was made to look that way."

I only look back at her, my lips a straight line.

Unexpectedly, the corner of her mouth quirks up, and she walks closer, her voice softening to something near a whisper. "You had dissuaded me once from slaying a traitor in my ranks, Inquisitor. I spared that man, back in Haven. You said that he might still be of use to us."

In a hiss, I respond "The Duke was of use to no one...", letting my anger flow out of me before I calm myself and meet her eyes again, as coyly as she meets mine "...but his successor will be, won't he?" I've read Leliana's reports on the Duke's family. I know that his successor is a young nephew who loathed his uncle, and would do anything to make himself seem superior.

Leliana looks over the board, crossing her arms over her chest in thought. "We could easily groom him to do as we please." I join her at the map, considering how we might go about that, mapping out connections in my mind between this noble and that one, until at last she murmurs "You are playing the game now, and your skill is considerable. Be advised, however, to be less perfect, hmm?"

I glance at her from the corners of my eyes. "Oh?"

After a deep breath she nods. "Yes. The report states that the assailant had a smooth, confident hand with the blade. None of the cuts looked rushed. Surely, if the assailant had required a hasty retreat, at least one of them, the last, would have been rushed, and there wouldn't have been enough cuts to dispatch him. But there were. There were just enough." Her blue eyes level her entire attention upon me, and I meet them with my own. "Consider the entire tale you mean to tell, and play the role even as you play the game. That someone meant to murder him is clear. Only the very best will realize this was an assassination, masked as something else."

"Or they would, if you didn't have the only copy of the physician's records" I add, and she smiles, knowing she's been caught.

"I am here to serve, Inquisitor, in every way that I can. It might interest you to know that those specialist trainers you've requested have just arrived this morning. You have three options of course, but I think the best one has already been lain before you." My spymaster's eyes flick to the side as she recalls a piece of information, then she glances back at me. "Her name is Heir. Seek her out."

At last I smile, my black lips pulling into a grin that shows even my white teeth rakishly as I turn away towards the wicket door. "In that case, I must go. I'd surely hate to keep her waiting."