He wanders Val Royeaux in a stupor—numb even to the burning sensation swallowing his hand palms to fingers, igniting veins along his forearm. People do not comment on the disarray of Inquisitor Mahanon Lavellan, black hair tangled, dark eyes unseeing, the grayish tinge that has taken his skin from the color of sand to dust. They fail to grasp black vallaslin tying him to Mythal, to his clan, to a night cast silver under the moon when he was recognized as a vessel of judgment. Answer and guardian, what he was always intended for. He'd been fifteen and kept his eyes open to the needle even as his vision swam with tears.
In retrospect, there was nothing worth seeing.
At the tower of Fen'Harel he'd spoken in the Inquisitor's voice, the Herald of Andraste they'd dreamed of who knew Dalish lore like a scholar and not a participant. He'd sounded normal because that was what he had to be, echoed by warnings to show no weakness speak no uncertainty there is no turning back from this office they love you for.
His clan is in Wycome. He's seen them only briefly through the years, groomed into a foreign shape by foreign hands. With pride glowing in his keeper's eyes, listening to little Mihri (not little anymore she protests, eleven years old all elbows and scabbed knees his niece does not wear pigtails like she used to), Lavellan buried the longing in his gut and let it fester. He told them only what stories they could celebrate, offered Ameridan as a Dalish hero to inspire what gods had betrayed.
Not that he could bring himself to tell them that. Not last time.
He hadn't been able to stay. Bringing grief during those few days they had was too much for even the famed Inquisitor.
And now it's only gotten worse.
Mythal was a fraud. All of them were. Worse than that, they demeaned and enslaved those very people who so adored them. The most reviled sins of Tevinter, their own.
All Dalish lie bound together in their fantasies, an amnesiac bloodline latching onto scraps and praying for the best.
But no god listens. No god cares or even exists.
Lavellan keeps his back straight and his expression empty, avoids Cole at the tavern. This time the spirit, the boy who'd been a spirit, allows it. Maybe it's for the best that the Inquisitor gets shitfaced tonight. Maybe dodging Exalted Councils and making an ass of himself to Orlesians with no patience for it is the best way forward.
Someone could slip poison into his ale. People do that, here.
Creators, his hand hurts.
He stops short when he sees Sera, remembers their conversation after the Arbor Wilds. "Stupid," he mouths silently, gut twisting, but the archer is waving him over and he has no choice but to obey.
At first, the chatter is inconsequential. A blur of memories and smalltalk he seems to answer passably well. Sera is crass and friendly and loud, as she likes to be.
Maybe if he makes her angry enough she'll slip poison into his ale.
So he asks her about them. Their gods, his gods.
Masters.
She's triumphant at first, of course. Lavellan listens to her rant about the arsewipes who used these things to make her feel less, what this says about them. It's so exactly what he anticipated it doesn't even sting.
But then Sera pauses, and what she says next throws him off-balance altogether.
"Hey, uh… so are you okay with it then? About 'the Creators'?"
They never asked. Not at the temple, not at the tower, not in the Fade or the Winter Palace or after Corypheus' death. Lavellan's breath is trapped in his throat, and Sera herself slowly comes into focus.
Her brows are knitting, her mouth is tight. Sincere.
"No," he says quietly, "I'm really not."
She bites her lip. He wonders if he's embarrassed her somehow or if this is something else.
"….remember you have friends. We're real."
At first he can only stand there, air wavering in his lungs, legs locked, inconstant as torchlight.
Then he blinks, and the world loses its shimmer, and Sera is not smiling so he does it for her. Nods a farewell, walks fast out the door. Keeps walking along the wall until he reaches a spot of relative seclusion. Sits there.
Inquisitor Lavellan buries his face into his knees and laughs until his breeches are soaked and he can't identify what sound he's making anymore.
Mercifully, no one hears over the music.
When it's time to investigate the mirrors again, he seeks her out. Sera has her back to him and is scribbling notes furiously.
Lavellan taps her on the shoulder once. She squawks and throws the journal halfway across the table. He remains silent this time, but the smile reaches his eyes.
"Andraste's bearded titmonsters—"
He puts his arms around her. Doesn't speak.
"What the… oh," says Sera. A beat passes and gingerly at first, then more firmly, she hugs him back.
"I wanted to thank you," he tells her softly. "Thank you."
Sera laughs, and this time he's sure he's embarrassed her, "Wait, what? Oh! Aw, that was nothing. You're making too much of it."
He lets her go, and on a whim tousles her hair. It's something he might have done if he'd had a sister. "Am not. Come on," he says, "we've got more nonsense to figure out. I'd like it if you were there."
Sera rolls her eyes, groans as she gets up. "Ugh, this is what I get for being nice. More magic glowy shit. Serves me right." But she's grinning.
"You know it," says the Inquisitor. For now at least, the ache is less than it was.
They leave together.