The purple-gray clouds pressed down, threatening a storm; though so far it only rained lightly as Maranda navigated the muddy path to the stables. Overhead gulls cried to one another. If they were coming inland, the worst of the storm was surely on the way. The occasional gust of wind whipped her long brown hair into her face and she pushed it back impatiently. Her boots squelched in the mud; there was no avoiding it. She didn't mind it though. Her lightning magic flitted inside of her, eager to greet the oncoming storm. Maybe later she would go out to watch it. But first, she had a task. The letters in her hand were getting slightly soggy.

The sweet smell of hay and horse welcomed her when she entered the much warmer and drier stable. As a little girl in the Ostwick Circle, Maranda often enjoyed slipping off to the stables whenever she could, even though she wasn't supposed to. The pungent scent of those stables reminded her of the home she could never return to. And now, as she wandered down the aisle, trailing her hand along the rough wooden stall doors and pausing to scratch some of the horses behind their ears, she was home.

It hadn't been the easy transition she'd dreamed of as a young girl, especially when the mage-templar war broke out. The Ostwick Circle remained as neutral as possible, for as long as it possibly could, but the fighting ended up on their doorstep, as it had with many other Circles across Thedas. She escaped to the only place she hoped she could be safe: the Trevelyan manor, where her parents had welcomed her with open arms. She woke some nights wary of templars and fearing abominations, and occasionally added a sprinkle of magebane mix to her nightly tea to keep the dreams at bay for part of the night.

Home wasn't always where you'd grown up, something Maranda had learned when her Circle fell, and when she'd come back to the manor. So she knew, to a certain extent, how her baby brother was feeling, even if he wouldn't listen to her when she told him so.

Maranda found Theodane toward the back of the stable grooming his deep chestnut gelding: a slow task for him. She knew he'd also insist on cleaning and storing the tack right afterward. But the whole family, and by now most of the staff, knew better than to offer help. It was his defense mechanism: he could hide behind having work to get done, and avoid everyone that way.

Theo had just finished currying his horse and set to work on the hooves. His Fereldan Forder stood patient and still, resting its fetlock on Theo's knee so he could dig out the muck caught there. "I know you're there," he said with a slight grunt as he leaned into the horse's leg for better leverage. "You can toss everything. I'm not interested. And just have dinner sent down. I'll be a while tonight."

"No, I know, and again, no." Maranda dug in her pocket and produced a sugar cube. Arion, Theo's horse, whickered softly and took the sugar from her. Theo just sighed and worked at the clods of mud and small stones. Maranda leaned against a stall door and began looking through the letters. "This one's from Starkhaven. Shall I see what your friend the Prince has to say?"

Theo shrugged. "He's not my friend, and if it's some dreck about being grateful to the Maker for my sufferings, I don't want to hear it."

He had a point. Maranda shifted the letter aside. "This one's from Kirkwall." She broke the seal and opened it when Theo didn't object. "The Viscount would like you to remember you have a Hightown home at your disposal should you choose to take a holiday there. And he can still beat you at Wicked Grace."

Theo cracked a rare ghost of a smile. "Kind of hard to hide your hand when… Well. You know."

"At least you have a sense of humor now. A bit macabre, but it's a start. Shall I save this one?" Theo nodded and scooted over to Arion's back hooves. "Junk… some noble from Orlais or other…"

"How did they track me down?" he muttered. Arion flicked his tail in Theo's face. "Enough from you, Horse."

"Either their networks are as extensive as yours used to be, or they figured you'd come back here eventually. Oh, this one's from Val Royeaux. Maker's breath, Theo, only you would have the Divine sending you personal letters," she said, shaking her head. When Theo didn't respond she opened it. "She says this is the third time she's written, she knows you're still alive and would like to know why you're not replying."

"I'm busy."

Maranda appraised him. In her boots, breeches, and loose, flowy blouse, she hardly looked like the Circle mage she'd been most of her life, but at least, aside from the muddy boots her clothes were clean. "Busy doing a lot of nothing and getting filthy?" she teased, but it was true: after an afternoon of taking Arion through his paces, including a few jumps, Theo had fallen into the mud countless times.

She rubbed Arion's velvety nose while Theo worked on the last hoof. "You can do your tack after dinner, you know." He sighed and picked up the soft brush, and brushed Arion's coat to a deep sheen. "Mum will have them keep dinner warm until after you've cleaned up."

"It's no bother, she can just-"

"Theo. I think our parents would like to spend time with their son," she said gently. "They've hardly seen you in the last few weeks. I wouldn't mind getting to know my kid brother a bit better, too."

She undid Arion's cross ties and looped her hand under the halter. Theo leaned his forehead against his horse's neck. "You're going to stand there until I come in, aren't you," he said after a long moment. He pushed his hair out of his face, leaving behind a smudge of dirt. His hair was too short to pull back, but too long to keep out of his face; his facial scruff was a borderline beard at this point.

Maranda figured he preferred this look, as it made him almost unrecognizable from the Inquisitor he had been. "Just so you know," she said as they approached the back entry of the manor, "that necklace you keep on your bedside table was glowing."

Theo paused and looked up at the darkening clouds, then back toward the stable. "I really should finish up with Arion."

"Andraste's arse , Theo, please just come inside." Maranda grabbed his wrist. A large, cold raindrop plopped onto her head. "I'm sorry I said anything. And take your boots off first, or Nola will never let us hear the end of it."

Theo gazed up at the rain and then down at himself, all covered in dirt. "Fine. Don't say I never did anything for you though." He tried to smile, though his eyes were distant.

"Don't do this for me," Maranda told him. "Or for our parents. Do it for yourself. Theo." He paused and looked back at her. "It's an awful road to walk. Don't walk it alone." He just nodded and shrugged one shoulder before heading down the hall.

Theo had only returned home a just under a month ago. He refused to talk about the Inquisition or its fate. He refused to respond to letters from his friends, if he even read them in the first place. He refused to explain why his husband, Dorian, who'd been planning to come back to Ostwick with him, had gone to Tevinter instead. Theo kept to himself, secretive and sullen.

Maranda knew what a difficult transition it must be, and she wished he'd at least let her talk to him beyond small talk in the stables, or in the halls between meals. Frankly, he'd amazed her when he agreed to come in just now. She paused in her room to freshen up before dinner. Her fingers tingled slightly, so she opened the window and smelled the air. She'd always been able to tell when a storm was coming. It was how they'd found out she was a mage to begin with.

The summer she turned nine… the mournful cries of gulls… purple clouds billowing in from the east… the tingle in her hands. The sheets of rain falling as she stood in the field, and the way the first bolt of lightning reached out to her, how she reached back and laughed when her bolt met that one. And then the terror on her parent's faces, quickly replaced by sadness as they wrapped her in a cloak and walked home.

Her Uncle Cadan arrived later the next day.

She wove her long hair into a braid to keep it out of her face and headed to the sitting room. "Need me to take care of that?" she asked her father, who sipped at a glass of whiskey. His momentary hesitation would probably never go away; but he nodded and held out the glass, and Maranda touched two fingers to it. The glass frosted over and the whiskey instantly chilled. She'd been afraid to use her magic when she first came home; but over time her parents were less fearful, less adamant about clinging to tradition, and now she did small spells and cantrips openly.

"Thank you. Can I pour you some?" He nodded toward the decanter. Maranda shook her head and took a seat. "Did you talk some sense into your brother?"

"He did come in, yes. Not sure if that's the sense you wanted me to achieve, but I guess it's a start. He's… stubborn," she said at last, even though that didn't quite feel like the right word.

"He had to be, to do the things he did." Her father finished off his drink. He forced a smile. "Dinner?"

Theo had a long list of things he didn't want to think about, let alone talk about.

He didn't know where to begin for one, and if anyone would or could understand just how much he had lost as the Inquisitor. It had given him the purpose he'd never had, and the identity he'd craved. Now, as he worked to get cleaned up after a day of falling off his horse in the mud, he was no one.

He gritted his teeth and began the arduous task of combing through his wild hair, and then trimming up his beard. The scar down the side of his face had faded some, a reminder of chasing ghosts and fighting monsters and saving the world. Now he could hardly even dress himself. He shrugged into clean clothing; a tailor had worked to modify his wardrobe to make it easier to dress with only one arm, including altering the left arm of all of his shirts so it wouldn't dangle; the visual tended to discomfit some people.

But he still had so much to get used to.

Pain where there shouldn't be pain, for one. Sometimes his left hand hurt so badly it woke him up; he expected the throbbing green glow of his mark, only it wasn't there-and neither was the hand. Occasionally his wrist itched, but there was nowhere to scratch. He'd reach for something and his hand would pass through the air, because his hand just wasn't there. Nevermind how damned long it took to do everything one-handed.

At last Theo was more presentable than he'd been in a few days, and he hated to admit it, but it felt good. Covered in mud, hiding out in the stables or down by the ocean made it easy to sink into that feeling of being nobody. Cleaned up, properly dressed, and ready to sit down with his family for a meal? He had to be Theo Trevelyan. Another wave of discomfort surged through him: just who wasthat?

The Theo Trevelyan he'd known was an archer who rivaled even Prince Sebastian Vael. That Theo Trevelyan commanded armies and the respect and gratitude of empresses. That Theo Trevelyan's marked left hand sparked curiosity and fear. He was the Theo Trevelyan who was completely unabashed at the fact that a handsome Tevinter mage shared his adventures as well as his bed.

No. He wasn't that Theo anymore. He often had to remind himself that he just needed to learn how to live again, and an identity would eventually follow. He was doing a pretty shitty job at it, but he'd been a pretty shitty Inquisitor when that started too, to be completely honest. He took a deep breath and slipped through the secret passages and halls he'd come to know as a child. He had a hundred memories connected to the manor home. It had hardly changed, while he was a completely different person.

He smelled dinner as he neared the kitchens and his stomach rumbled. He slipped out into the hallway, swallowed his nerves, and stepped out into the family dining room. Conversation stopped when he appeared, but the silence didn't linger. His family tried to be as normal as possible with him, which he found strange: what was normal for the Trevelyans these days?

"Welcome, son." Bann Alick Trevelyan rose from his seat at the head of the table. He smiled warmly and gestured for Theo to sit. "We were just talking about how nice it is to see you riding again."

Theo sat down. "True, I did do more riding than falling this time. Arion's a good horse. Nice and patient." The chowder course came out and talk turned to horses; the family crest bore a horse, and the Trevelyans were well versed in horsemanship, lore, and breeding. The Bann of Wycome offered a mare to breed with Alick's stallion; Starkhaven proposed interbreeding with some horses of Antivan stock; meanwhile Ostwick's horsemasters were choosing the best destriers to ride at the Grand Tourney in Tantervale next spring.

Theo ate his chowder while his father did most of the talking. Skyhold had had many things, including a team of skilled chefs, but nothing compared to the freshness of fish caught off the coast of Ostwick. His afternoon in the drizzle and mud left him famished. He glanced up to see his mother watching him, but she quickly looked away when she saw him. It had to be ironic: three of her children were off with their own families, and Gavriel had died a little over three years ago. Now the two children she'd probably thought lost to the Chantry forever were both home. Damaged, but home.

The servants swept away the chowder crocks; the main dish, individual fish pies with flaky, buttery crust, came out. "So, Theodane." Alick dug into his steaming pot pie. "Have you heard from anyone of late?"

It came out casual and innocent, but Theo's fork hovered over his own fish pie. He stared down at the browned crust. "Not really." Under the table, Maranda kicked him. When he glanced up, she mouthed letters? "I think they're all busy." He averted his eyes from his sister. He took a huge, steaming forkful of his dinner and blew on it before shoving it in his mouth so he wouldn't have to talk more.

"The Viscount of Kirkwall offered him a place to stay if he felt the need for a holiday," Maranda said, and Theo glared at her. "Maybe before the end of the summer? Kirkwall isn't that far away. I could go too," she added, glancing up at her parents. "It seems safer now under Divine Victoria."

Their parents agreed that would be a grand idea; Theo just poked at his dinner. He didn't know how he felt about visiting Kirkwall. The last time he'd been there had been part of a pilgrimage on the way to the Conclave. Now Varric lived there and would probably want him to read his memoir: All This Shit Is Weird. Yes, the shit had been weird. No, he didn't want to talk about it, let alone read an embellished version of it.

"Anything from Dorian?" His father asked, and Theo dropped his fork. "I had been looking forward to seeing my son-in-law, but hearing from him will suffice."

"No. He's busy." Theo forced himself to keep eating, pretending things were alright. He'd been purposely vague on the details of why his husband was in Tevinter while he'd come back to Ostwick: the opposite end of the world from him. "What's going on with Matty and his family? Or Gwyn, or Thisbe?" He kept his voice even. They're your family. They care about you. They care about each other, and Dorian's their family now, too. That's why they're asking.

"Well, Matthias's youngest daughter was accepted at the University of Markham, and his oldest will be traveling to Hircinia to work with their Bann regarding estate management for the spring season. It's possible Lady Thistlewaite's son may end up being a suitable match," his mother said before Alick could say anything else.

Talk turned to Theo and Maranda's nieces and nephews. The Trevelyans' standing in the Free Marches had increased exponentially with Theo's run as Inquisitor. He was glad that his family benefitted from his status. There had been a time when he had been angry and resentful that his father thought to gain from Theo's position. Only after he'd survived Corypheus, did he realize the need to reconcile with his family. They'd made such a spirited effort, too: welcoming Dorian as their own, accepting Theo's adventuring spirit, allowing Theo to come home and huddle away in the guest wing of their manor after he'd spent over three years as the most powerful man in the world.

He finished his fish pot pie and rested his napkin on the table. "I'm kind of tired after being thrown off a horse all day, so I think I might retire," he announced. He ignored his itchy non-wrist.

"Good night," his father said with a smile. "Thank you for joining us. It was nice to have this time together."

"Perhaps this can happen more often." Cordelia sounded hopeful, and she nodded as she said it. "It's nice to be family again." She looked away from him. "Maranda, tell me again about work?"

Theo just nodded and headed back to his rooms. He didn't know much about Maranda still; he hadn't asked, and she hadn't been very forthcoming. Other than sharing the surname Trevelyan, space in the manor, and the same green eyes, he and Maranda were completely different.

His parents had let him set up in the remote guest wing, in a comfortable room with a canopy bed, well-stocked writing desk, fireplace, two leather chairs and a small table, and a private rest room. A leaded glass window overlooked the orchards. Heavy rains slashed against the window.

He slipped off his soft house shoes and climbed into the bed. It was far smaller than his bed in Skyhold had been, but still felt large and lonely without Dorian to share it. They'd managed to share camp cots, fur piles, and bed rolls. Theo took the sending crystal necklace off the bedside table and rubbed his thumb across it. Dorian hadn't had the chance to teach him how to use it, though through no fault of his.

It wasn't just that Dorian had to leave for Tevinter. It was that Dorian had planned on leaving before he'd even come to the Exalted Council. That's what hurt, at least then. The pain he felt now came from knowing that Dorian had needed him in that moment to support and care for him. Dorian's father had been assassinated; his family legacy was on the line; he had a chance to truly make a difference in his homeland. And Theo had been petulant and stubborn and let him leave.

As he did every night, he held the crystal tight in his hand. I'm sorry, Dorian, he thought. I'm sorry. The lazy pearlescent swirl below the surface never changed. He'd written out pages of apologies to read, if by chance Dorian ever answered. "I love you," he whispered, voice cracking.

No answer.

He shoved the crystal under his pillow. He worked his shirt off and stared at the scarred stump. The Anchor was nothing more than a magical parasite, feeding on him until there was nothing left. He'd have died if Bull hadn't taken off his forearm. But lying here, staring at what remained, it felt like that emptiness was killing him too.

Theo looked over at the fireplace where his bow had been mounted on a plaque above the hearth, like a trophy or accessory. He couldn't stand looking at it. That's all he was anymore to anyone, it seemed. He rolled out of bed. He lifted his bow off the plaque, the comfortable weight in his hand nearly bringing him to tears. He knelt down by the hearth and held the bow toward the low flames. The glow shone in the polished wood and though he told himself he wanted it to burn, he couldn't cast it into the fire.

Theo dropped it and threw himself back into bed. He needed to do something, anything but languish here like some forgotten relic. He slid his hand under the pillow and clutched the crystal. He'd come home to try living again. He could still do that, but he had to figure out who he was now, and what he wanted to be. He blew out the candle and rolled over in bed.

Right now, he was tired. Right now, he wanted to be asleep.