Inside the tent, the canvas walls glowed amber in the light thrown off by the brazier, lit to combat the chill of the mountain air. It was a simple space, designed to accommodate necessity: a camp bed, sheets tucked precisely under, two small chests at its foot, a folding desk and chair, visible pages stacked neatly under plain paperweights to defend against sudden gusts, all objects free from adornment, colour, identifying marks.

At the desk, a man, tending more towards youth than great age, though at that strange period in one's life between 25 and 40 in which one is neither young nor old which makes age difficult to determine. From the back, he was as non-descript as his surroundings, dressed in the ragged coat and scarf of a down-on-his-luck mercenary from the Free Marches, slightly below the average height, short black hair impeccably parted and combed. It was from the front that the broad face would give one pause, black eyes and high cheekbones promising what had once been a handsome smile, before the symbol of the faithful – the many rayed sun – had been burned into the centre of a lightly lined forehead.

There is a process for everything, and everything has its process, he thought, arranging a blank sheet of parchment in the centre of the desk. Just as in working lyrium, working ink requires patience. Page set just so, he took up his quill, dipped the nib in the inkwell to his left, already heated to ensure the ink was unmarred by frost, allowed the ink to drip, tested for blotching on a piece of scrap, put the quill to the page.

Minutes of the Divine Conclave, Second Day
Tuesday, 9th Draconis, 9:41 Drag-

Pages on the desk fluttered in the draft from the open flap of the tent. He prepares to continue, letters o and n following the g, until a voice cut through, "Chance?"

She was quiet, gentle. In his mind the voice evokes the image of a woman about his own age, similar in features, though lighter of hair and eye, and some two inches shorter. He turned to look, and the speaker matches the memory. Sister. It is a word, fit nicely into the framework of his understanding of the world, in much the same way as did the words doornail, stone, tower.

"Yes, Lucrezia?" His eyes were on her, filling the frame of the open tent-flap.

He noted the brief grimace cross her face, as it always did when he addressed her by name. Her eyes flickered shut, open, flashed to the mark on his forehead, then back to his own.

She is careful not to stare. She thinks I do not notice that she looks.

The sound of papers rustling behind him brought his mind back to thoughts of his process, that the interruption would have dried his quill. He would have to begin anew. He shifted, made as if to turn, watched the muscles around her mouth tighten, her lips flatten, her eyes narrow. She exhaled slowly through her nose, straightened, shoulders back, chin lifted.

"I have been invited down into the village, mi carrissimo, into Haven. Would you like to come with me?"

There is tightness in the endearment, the lift of the question.

She is annoyed. She is frequently annoyed. She does not hide it as well as she believes.

He shook his head, "No, thank you. I would prefer to stay here." In spite of the flatness of the tone, the words were true. He would prefer to stay, would prefer to write the minutes of the day properly, rather than walking down to the village to be stared at as Lucrezia engaged in the endless political entanglements that she entertained herself with.

Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to his work, picked up the quill, noted the quality of the ink still left, and began again. Dipped the nib in the inkwell just to his left, allowed the ink to drip, tested for blotching on a piece of scrap, put the quill to the page.

"Of course, Chance." He heard the whisper, heard the waver in her voice before the flap of the tent fell closed, and the papers on his desk fell still.

She is sad.

He continued writing.

Since he had risen from the glowing green ground where the Temple of Sacred Ashes had once stood, Chance had felt as though the entire world had been put to sea in rough waters, head spinning at every turn. The just-declared Inquisition, if one could call slamming a book on a table that held a grand total of four people a declaraction, did little to help that.

The door to the back room of Haven's Chantry slammed shut behind the Chancellor, and Chance found himself alone with the Left and Right Hands of the late Divine. It would have been dark but for the flicker of torchlight and candlesticks, and the dim green glow of a hand. Cassandra and Leliana, both rolling their eyes at the dramatic exit, turned to each other and began to make plans, speaking of people and places he knew precious little about.

Unsure of what to do, his input being unnecessary, but unwilling to leave without being dismissed, he allowed their voices to become a part of the background, a pleasant hum over which his stomach rumbled. He looked down, patted it gently with a rueful grin, wondering how many days he had lost to unconsciousness, if those should be counted when wondering when he had last eaten. To distract himself, had hunger always felt this sharp? he took up a token from the table, rolling the blackened fist over his marked left palm. Within his own, the tiny hand blotted out the faint green glow of the mark, the points of light gleaming between the curled fingers, deeper, darker, lighter, brighter, and though the pain in his belly did not diminish, he found that he could ignore it. It worked quite well, watching the movements of a hand within a hand, until a voice, muffled by the heavy door, broke through his concentration.

It was a confident, "Excuse me," of an aristocrat, one who anticipated being allowed to pass, simply because she asked to be.

The voices on his own side of the door stopped, and he looked to them both, noting that Leliana and Cassandra had exchanged glances as the guard spoke up. " 'M sorry m'lady. 'Fraid that no one's goin' in right now. Seeker's orders."

"I understand, serah," her voice was slow and sweet, and he was transported, across time and space, brought him back to a small room, sitting at a desk surrounded by shelves of books, a stooped old man speaking. Honey and oil, the old man, their tutor, had said as they had practiced their elocution, honey and oil, just sweet enough, just smooth enough to get your way. And like a harpist with an ancient instrument, the tones, sweetened by honey and smoothed by oil, are tugged on long-atrophied heart-strings. They shift, shake, thrum, resonate, until his heart is singing along with the voice in the hall, and it is one step to turn, two to the door, thrown wide open as the guard startled towards his sword, and she, the speaker, stood no less stunned than if he had struck her over the head. There is no time to react, as, arms thrown around her, he crushed her to his chest.

"Chance!" she squeaked, shrieked, refined speech forgotten as, arms pinned, she made a half-hearted twist, tried to push him away.

Laughing, he clung all the tighter, a true hug, a proper hug, cheek-to-temple with his too-short twin, until a grunt of pain escaped her, and he pulled back, hands still on her shoulders as he took in her appearance properly. Her hair, typically tied up in an elegant knot, in wildly curling disarray around her shoulders, face clean but freshly scratched, left arm bound up in a sling across her chest. A breath, a moment to see, and his heart was in a vice, squeezing, squishing, squashed, and around his throat a hand, fingers digging deeper. He struggled, pushing, forcing the air in, urged his heart to beat, beat damn you.

There were so many questions, too many questions: what, when, how, where, will you be, will I be, will any of this be alright? They jumped and danced and rattled through his mind until they blended together and all that he could ask was, "Luck?"

She reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and he marveled at the feather-light fingers, the tenderness of touch. His palate prickled, his nose itched, and he felt his eyes burn, fill, overflow.

"You called me Luck," she whispered, awed, smiling through the trickle of tears that wound their way over the planes of her face.

"I did," he laughed, one note, a single astonished ha, then stopped, surprised at the sound in his ears, the echo of a laugh ringing back to him through the halls of the Chantry. She smiled, giggled at his expression, set him off laughing again, and they clung to each other, laughing, sobbing, rocking, until the sound of a cleared throat behind him brought them both back to the world.

He turned to see the Hands in the open doorway, Cassandra glowering, Leliana with the ghost of a smile gliding across her hooded face.

"I suppose introductions are in order." He smiled at the pair of them, gave a short cough. "My laides," he played the gallant, bowed, though he was long out of practice, a voice of a rusted hinge, creaking back to life. "May I present my sister, Lady Lucrezia Rr…"

The elbow is sharp in his ribs, the hissed "Don't," even sharper. He winced, but continued, grinning more broadly.

"Lady Lucrezia Reinhilde Trevelyan."

She had always hated her name.