Chapter 2

Then-Bloomingtide

Six Months Earlier...

Very little managed to surprise Meryn Levellan anymore.

A lanticore stampede? Typical Thursday. A group of Carta thugs dressed in Orlesian finery and dancing the Remigold? Three times in the last month. But this-

-this was remarkable.

"That's what your face really looks like?"

"Hardly...not even remotely..." Dorian stammers. "Of all the things that over eager mind of yours thinks about over the course of a day and this is what you worry about?!" he asks exaggeratedly gesturing to his Fade reflection, a perfect mirror image save for the absence of his gloriously well-manicured mustache.

She sniggers.

"You're supposed to be here learning to defend yourself from demons and instead you spend your time thinking about absolutely dreadful make-overs," he says the stress at the appalling doppelganger clearly evident in the timbre of his voice.

"That's it then. You're an abomination. You must be. Possessed already."

She bursts out laughing, clapping him on the shoulder.

"You look rather dashing actually. 'Cept that pig snout," she points and the Fade twists itself to accommodate the new dream, a quaint, pink hued, up turned nose appearing on his reflection's face in a cloud of smoke and small popping sound.

"And duck feet-" POP!

"Oh no no- qunari horns." A wince. POP! She swears he's started whimpering softly.

"Wait, wait, wait- Varric's chest hair!" POP! With each new whimsical POP! the reflection alters and the corporeal Dorian's face flashes from a look of pain to unbelief and back again. She decides to put him out of his misery.

"Nevermind all that." POP!

Everything returns to normal-mustache included. He visibly lets out a sigh of relief.

"A paisley print set of mage's robes-" the look of horror would keep her gleeful for years to come, and she goes in the for kill, "-in puce."

POP!

"Oh no you don't you chore of a woman, that is quite enough," the mage says, grabbing her arm and dragging her away towards another part of her dream, until the baneful popping sound disappears. He is practically shaking, and Meryn can almost hear the loud pounding of his heart from seeing his worst nightmares come to life.

"I rather enjoy the Fade," she decides, glancing sidelong at her companion as they amble through a new dream scape; this one a large sunlit meadow full of soft grasses and wildflowers running the length of the valley, only ending at the tree line where she sees a large black wolfy thing, trotting lazily along. She sees a crumbling elvhen ruin near the horizon, the rubble slowly being reclaimed by the vibrant plant life surrounding it. A slight breeze picks up, carrying the scent of cinnamon and honeysuckle, and she can't help but be amazed at everything the Fade is capable of; an entire world right in front of her she was unaware of simply because it was only accessible while she was unconscious.

Until recently that is.

She'd fall asleep in her rooms at Skyhold as she had a thousand times before, then wake up inside her memories, fully aware and able to interact with them, perfectly recalling her actions when she woke. She'd even tried to manipulate dream scapes of others as she'd seen him do in their journeys together, but she was unsuccessful. A curious yet disturbing development because the heart of the matter was simple. Only mages are aware in the Fade and can manipulate it's energies.

And Meryn is definitely not a mage.

The beauty of the new dream scape is not lost on Dorian either.

"Where is this place?"

"Not entirely sure. My father and I found it when I was a child before I joined my cla-"

An oddly recognizable trilling bark is her only warning before a blur slams into Dorian, startling her and knocking the mage off balance. It darts in between his legs and veers around his ankles in a frenzied lope, yipping and growling. He tries to avoid it, shuffling his feet fruitlessly as he trips and falls.

She swears she hears him mutter "Maferath's beard, not again," as he collapses heavily into a heap, but the sound is drowned out by her own gleeful squeal-

"Tadwinks!" The little fox yammers happily at her, eyes blinking owlishly from his position atop Dorian's prostrate body. Dorian glowers at him, huffing in displeasure as the Fennec struts across his chest, ever the triumphant conqueror.

"And what brought your little beastie here?" he questions grumpily.

"He's not a beastie!" she declares, opening her arms for him to jump into, chortling softly as the small animal uses Dorian's head as a springboard to jump from; almost as if he understands the insult against his person.

"I've always thought he'd love to play here, "she says, hugging him tightly to her chest.

Tadwinks' reflection is perfect-brown eyes in a small intelligent face framed by a pair of enormous but adorable pointed ears. The dappled, sandy color of his fur is just right-as luxurious and soft to the touch as it's realistic counterpart. Even his bushy tail is accurate-nearly the size of the rest of his body with rings of darker chestnut fur ending in an uneven, slightly charred black tip.

Simple, delectable, and absolutely loveable.

Meryn lets him climb onto her shoulder, curling his tail around her neck in his usual spot and moves to help Dorian to his feet, only to find he's managed it (rather indignantly) on his own.

"How many times is that now?" she snickers, unable to help herself.

"Modern mathematics has not devised a number high enough," he huffs in annoyance.

"There's a simple solution," she taunts. "You could just do it-works every time."

"Never. It's what he wants. A blatant power move if I ever saw one."

Tadwinks trills happily, alternating between nuzzling her neck and fixing a beady glare on Dorian.

"So even if it makes your life easier, you won't so you can win a battle of wills...with an animal..."she trails off, trying to appear nonchalant instead of reveling in his annoyance. Which is what she's really doing.

Enthusiastically with flare.

She points to the little creature who is now the picture of innocence, yawning sleepily.

"Unbelievable," the mage mumbles, upper lip twitching slightly in distaste. "But no. I refuse. On principle."

"Just do it."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Rub his belly!" A yip of approval.

"Why? Solas never did and the infernal creature never tortured him like he does me." She winces, surprised by his use of a casual, insult free reference to her former "associate" instead of his usual fervid tirades, but the mage does not notice.

Yup- she's ignoring it. Ignoring is good.

"Solas never 'accidentally' set Tadwinks' tail on fire," she shoots back.

"He started it! It wouldn't have happened if the beast refrained from stealing from me." She raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Really? What exactly? You never mentioned anything before," she watches in fascination as the perpetually unflappable mage's face reddens.

"That is neither here nor there. Stop changing the subject." She stores the information away for later, already plotting potential uses for it. "Fine." He seems appeased at the truce, but refocuses on the task at hand. "Are you ready?"

"For you to rub Taddy's belly? Of course. Just say where and when," she answers cheekily, scratching the fox's chin. She can hear him dozing softly in her ear.

"Inquisitor be serious please. This is important. You have to be prepared for demons even in your dreams-especially there," he scolds earnestly. "They can appear at any moment, expected or not."

"If I were a mage maybe," she scoffs. "But since I haven't been one for oh-my entire life- everyone should just relax."

"Truly? Then that horrendous nightmare we were in before was what? Besides me aging a hundred years."

"My pledge of undying affection should you ever choose to shave," she teases, expecting an answering smile in return but his face is suddenly serious.

Deadly serious.

"Did you not notice?" Meryn turns to him, thrown at his sudden change in demeanor. "Dorian?" she questions.

"Where is it?" he cuts her off, grabbing her arm, unsettling her further. The Fade begins to reflect her alarm, chasing the sun away and replacing it with an ominous bunching of dark clouds. The breeze turns violent, biting through her clothes, chilling her.

"Dorian," she starts again, trying to pull her arm away roughly, but the vice on her arm only tightens.

"Foolish girl. Where is it?" he asks, his voice dropping into a lower register and losing the Tevene flourish. This is bad, she thinks with trepidation. Very bad.

"Or, not Dorian. That works too," she says letting out a panicked chuckle. As if on cue the incoherent burble and rumble of the Well picks up in her head, the voices of her ancestors sensitive to the danger and attempting to guide her, but they remain frustratingly indecipherable. Thousands of years of invaluable magical and cultural knowledge from her immortal fore bearers, and it's completely and utterly useless when she needs it. Marvelous.

She's always had an appreciation for irony, especially at the least appropriate moments.

Tadwinks, dozing lightly on Meryn's shoulder, rouses as he senses her disquiet. She reaches past him for the blades practically adhered to her back with her free hand, but it touches nothing. Not-Dorian flashes a wicked, overlarge smile that instead of looking reassuring makes him seem more dreadful and menacing. "Where is it? Tell me now before I have to force myself in you," he says utterly calm, as if he's discussing the weather or new drapery and not taking over her body. "I've never been partial to elves. It gets so cramped inside."

"Eh?!" she eloquently exclaims, as she watches what she thought was a dear friend morph and change in front of her eyes; terrified at being defenseless on one hand yet at the same time thoroughly insulted that she, the legendary Meryn Levellan- the blighted Herald of Andraste- is anything but an optimal candidate for demon possession.

Not-Dorian's neck elongates, the bones contorting painfully at such an unnatural angle she's surprised his head doesn't snap off. The hand holding her arm explodes outward from a humanly proportioned appendage to twice it's former size, skin hardening into a chitinous shell that seems very durable but is fortuitous for Meryn, the extra space allowing her to slip free and back away.

The creature's body is pulled and stretched past it's limitations, and when it finishes, it's standing a full two lengths higher then before, spindly and emaciated; every bone and ridge of it's skeleton clearly defined. It's face is no longer Dorian's, the bottom jaw hangs somewhere around it's chest, and when it speaks again, it's jowls quiver, unleashing a scream that curdles her blood.

A terror demon. Delightful.

Cursing whatever Creator she's offended today (she's betting on Mythal since she's the only one who's actually, well, alive)that she was caught unaware-yet again-by a demon, she turns and flees, Tadwinks clinging to her shoulder. She tries to come up with a plan that doesn't include curling into the fetal position and hoping for a qunari sized flesh prison to suddenly appear, but her thoughts scatter across her mind as she panics, the endless chatter of the Well distracting. She doesn't make it very far before a pool of toxic green envelopes her feet and skeletal arms find purchase on the surface, beginning to claw their way out. She skips backward, Tadwinks falling to the ground, hissing.

"What do you want?" she yells, stalling for time, mind desperately empty. She hears it's cold voice in her head "WHERE. IS. IT." before it's arms grab her ankles and drags her back towards the pool of light, the small fox dancing around it's edges, red eyes flashing as he howls. "SUBMIT." She kicks and screams as it drags her backwards, thoughts completely scrambled until a long mournful howl echoes across the valley, shooting an unexpected but familiar electricity through her veins, culling through her anxiety to allow her to finally hear the Well with clarity.

This is a dream...

She latches onto this last thought, repeating it as a mantra, over and over, as the monster pulls her feet first into the pool and it's waiting maw.

It's a dream! Her eyes slam open as she attempts to force her will onto the Fade as effortlessly as she's seen Solas do it, but her surroundings stubbornly refuse to change. She tries to focus even as she feels the demon devour one of her legs, the pain searing through her body, it's abhorrent voice in her head gluttonous as he drinks in her blood, savoring the magic in it. She may not have been born a mage, but she is in possession of a magical mark of unknown origins, with a rather unexplored skill set- so she calls on it, praying it can save her once again.

Her hand responds, blazing into a brilliant green, the Anchor forming a blade of energy around her fist. She slashes out at the fallen spirit, power flaring through knife-

-before she wakes up surrounded by shards of glass and debris back in her bed in Skyhold with Tadwinks' jaws sunk into her thigh. The magic of the Anchor is seething, not yet quiet, flickering in and out of the form of the Fade knife before dispersing. She blinks, scarcely believing she's actually awake and still has all of her bits attached to the rest of her. She glances at the chaos around her room, cringing at the recently repaired and even more recently broken stained glass windows.

Josephine's going to kill me...

Ignoring the faint trails of smoke and the mild smell of burning papers floating in the air, she turns to the little fox gnawing on her thigh.

"You don't think anyone would have noticed anything right?"

He drops her leg abruptly to slap her in the face with his tail.

Excellent, she muses darkly, picking fox fur out of her teeth.

"Utterly irresponsible!"

Meryn winces, seeking refuge in the back of her chair. Anything to put some space between her and her opponent-the furious whirlwind that was Josephine Montilyet.

"To let it progress to this magnitude without even seeking our advice is...is just..." Josephine's tirade halts for a moment, probably seeking a more diplomatic way to say "just plain stupid", and settling on-

"Unacceptable!"

Meryn understands her advisers are often upset with her somewhat...lackadaisical?... attitude towards personal safety, but she assumes they wouldn't be surprised by the kind of trouble she (inadvertently) brings on herself.

There was the incident with the dog at the Orlesian playhouse...her favorite game of Lets Poke the Bear...and who could forget the first time she went to the rookery after she stopped coloring her hair. She's positive the stable boy hasn't.

She's the Inquisitor after all. Old magic, false gods, dragons-she's faced them all with little more then smile and a well placed back stab. Meryn smiles to herself, remembering when a smile and a well placed back stab was all she had (laundry day!). The Templar order is definitely not as chaste and naive as Cullen's blushes and stammering makes it seem.

But the amount of shock and dismay Josephine is displaying is more then even Meryn was expecting. It makes her curious what else Josephine is worried about and is reprimanding her for.

It more then likely had something to do with her decorum for whatever stodgy human noble was dining with them for the evening; though lately Skyhold's guests had been stodgy human nobles without a love of the finer things, specifically the bathhouse-just thinking about it makes her cringe rather spastically in her chair.

Luckily Josephine doesn't notice.

One lord from the bannorn had been particularly pungent, smelling suspiciously like old cheeses- she'd barely been able to hold down her salmon (not that she is particularly fond of salmon but still). She was ready to call an early end to that evening but Josephine informed her of an important tradition the Lord of Cheeses always adhered too when visiting and would be greatly offended if not performed. She ended up spending the night dancing with the man, had to burn her lovely dress afterward because she couldn't get the smell of Orlesian Pont l'Eveque out of it, and then needed Adan to lance a bunion for her.

The professional face he maintained during the procedure gave the Inquisitor a new respect for the man and his chosen profession.

The Inquisition's guests were not the only things different lately. Little oddities kept occurring whether "gifts" of exotic foods that tasted strangely like wood chips or the rather absurd and unnecessary judgments she had to preside over (Lady Buchard still sent her letters calling for that poor steward's execution even though there was absolutely no evidence he spilled wine on her tapestry).

She's sure Josephine has noticed the irregularities and is meaning to scold her for them. (Though in her defense the tapestry was revolting, the red wine giving it a battle-scared, barbaric feel which Meryn saw as a vast improvement.)

Seeing the look of hurt and worry on Josephine's face makes most of her feel guilty, while the unscrupulous part hopes that if enough guilt shows on her face maybe Josie will let her off easy and not lecture her all day.

But it's not just Josephine she realizes. All of her companions are concerned by her lack of control of the Anchor and the increasingly frequent nights spent fighting off demon possession. Some furiously so-Tadwinks included.

Josephine finally hits her stride mid lecture, and the Inquisitor allows her mind to wander, knowing the Antivan won't even notice her inattention as long as she keeps the guilty look of contrition on her face and nods occasionally.

Knowing further attempts at sleeping are obviously dashed after waking from the nightmare, she stretches uncomfortably, listening to the sounds of her joints righting and correcting themselves; the whimsical POP! an alarming reminder of yet another involuntary misadventure.

Tadwinks, normally an indiscernible bundle of energy- licking her face, squirming in her arms or trilling playfully at her first thing in the morning- is aloof, eyeing her warily from the corner of her bed.

Thanks for the save young one," Meryn whispers to him, being sure to reach her unmarked hand in his direction, it's companion not yet quiescent from the burst of magic running through it. He sniffs peevishly at the offering; ears flat against his skull and brown eyes alight with blatant disapproval.

Don't look at me like that. I'm fine. It's just a dream."

A quaint snort.

"What? It's true. If anyone should be mad it's me. You had to have gotten a pound of flesh this time. Look at my thigh!" she exclaims, pointing to the gaping hole in her sleeping trousers and the angry red bite mark. "Last time you just nibbled a bit. Did I forget to feed you again?"

He stands up imperiously, nearly slapping her again with his bushy tail, then promptly ignores her and hops off the bed, claws clicking softly against the wood as he makes to leave, the picture of wounded pride. Meryn assumes he's trying to say "I save your life and you repay me by being offended how I do it."

But she can't be sure. It's a lot for a fox to emote after all.

"Of all the...fine! I'll talk to the others. Happy?" she concedes. He glances back at her over his shoulder, ears perking forward, and then scurries carefully around the shards of glass back to her, yipping sweetly as he hops onto the bed and into her arms. One companion appeased, so many to go.

Breakfast is next.

Meryn wonders if wishing food poisoning on everyone in Skyhold makes her a terrible person.

Not the lethal kind of course, but just enough so she can sneak quietly and undisturbed to the table while everyone else is in line for a privy and unable to ask any awkward questions about her disheveled silver hair or the large bags under her violet eyes-the latter even more prominent without Mythal's valleslin twining underneath she's noticed.

She'd asked Tadwinks his opinion-he hastily hid under the bed-so the Inquisitor could only imagine how she'd appear to an actual person, and as she enters the great hall carrying the petite fox, it's clear the Creators ignored her prayers for a swift and debilitating illness.

Typical.

Nearly all of her companions are present, save Vivienne who had business in Orlais, Iron Bull, presumably sleeping off the previous night's debaucheries, and Cole, who probably wasn't far off from the smell of yet more burning turnips.

She places Tadwinks down on a bench, grabbing an apple and some biscuits for herself and an assortment of fruits and berries for the fennec, laying them in front of him, watching fondly as he grabs them and scampers off to find privacy. Joining her friends at the table she plunks herself down with a heavy sigh.

So," Meryn says taking a giant bite of her apple. "Anything new and exciting on the agenda? I need to stab something." She finishes, mouth full, so it comes out sounding like "Mythess epth e shoopuf?"

Yup. Meant to do that. Definitely.

She swallows roughly and tries again. "Morning!" she says brightly, pleased by her success.

Varric smiles, clearing his throat and turning to her from his conversation with Cullen. "Morning Scribbles. How'd you sleep?" She raises a black eyebrow in suspicion, but the dwarf is the picture of innocence, cocky smile giving her no indication if he is aware of the previous night's "excitement".

"Perfect. Dreamt about Dorian." The mage in question perks up his name, eyebrow cocked with a familiar question in his eyes. She's happy to notice that his jaw is in it's proper place.

"Sublime, as always," she answers to his unspoken query. "Felt like my leg was going to fall off."

"Only the best for you my dear," he replies with a self-satisfied smirk, not noticing her dark humor.

"There was this thing with your fingers," she says, regaling him with mock tales of his prowess until she hears the babble of conversation pick up again, everyone settling back down, idly munching on fruits or cheeses. Blackwall and Sera at the opposite end of the table grab Dorian's attention and her eyes are drawn as they always are to the unused door of the rotunda.

The residents of Skyhold defer to other doors to access the library, leaving the painted walls and her memories alone, gathering dust. Her hand unconsciously reaches for her necklace, fingers gently stroking the warm glass phial, reminding Meryn of the one who gave it to her, a physical assurance that he was real and what they had, however fleetingly, was real. The shooting pain in her chest is nothing new after months of his absence, becoming a continual hum that keeps time to the ever present thrum of the Anchor.

She's practically a metronome.

The thought makes her giggle internally, and she allows herself to picture exactly what a walking, talking metronome would look like (lots of wobbling and pointy bits) when Sera sinks down next to her and gives her a rough shove.

"Oh right so we just ignorin' how miss elfy elf went all glowy and shite yestiday or what?" she asks raising her voice loudly. "What's with them bags under those purplers ye-"

"...isitor?"

She nods agreeably as Josephine's voice cuts through her reverie. "Excellent. I'll tell the baron you are amenable to his proposal."

"Errr..."

"Your wit remains intact while your attention wanders. Extraordinary."

Busted.

"Do you truly believe the 'smile and nod' you're so fond of actually works Inquisitor?" Josephine reprimands. "Or is subtly so far beyond you that you failed to notice the quality of the guests recently assigned to dine next to you?" she asks, a conspiratorial smile on her face.

Enlightenment dawns on Meryn, the pieces falling into place.

The daydreaming during council meetings, inattentiveness she'd assumed went unnoticed while Josephine tries to educate her on politics, neglecting to inform her friends that she was practically helpless while being stalked by demons in her dreams, and a myriad of little rude things Meryn's positive she's capable of even if she can't remember-have come back to haunt her. She's finally offended the perpetually composed, ever polite, endlessly patient diplomat of the Inquisition.

And she'd never noticed.

The awkward dances, uncomfortable dinners, the unsavory 'new' foods, the sodding Lord of Cheeses!-it all traces back to a righteously slighted Josephine. Sera may be the one to excel at pranks and tomfoolery, but Josephine transforms it into a dazzling art form.

So brilliant. So simple. So utterly humiliating.

She has to end it before Josephine really does marry her off while she is daydreaming about riding undead unicorns. And that means groveling. Lots of it.

She loathes groveling.

"I'm so sorry Josie," Meryn starts, the slight softening of Josephine's face giving her hope that she may, just this once, finally be able to talk herself out of something as opposed to the usual in to something.

"I know how hard you work for the Inquisition and to help me, and I should be polite enough to pay attention while you ramble about some stranger's dairy allergy,"

"Err..."

She never said she was any good at groveling.

If groveling doesn't work, try bargaining-a wise Antivan told her in one of the help sessions she actually remembers. (Then again the wise Antivan didn't have a patented Antivan death glare bearing down on her. Meryn hopes bargaining works because if Josephine keeps staring at her that way much longer she knows she'll agree to anything to make it right-including adopting that sadistic three legged dog from the playhouse.)

"What do you want me to do?"

"I've spoken with Varric and he may know of a tutor who can assist you-and you will address this problem and learn to control your magic." She knows she should stick to her strengths-smiling and nodding-but her mouth rambles on without her.

"But, I don't-" the ambassador holds up her hand, effectively silencing the elf.

"We both know that is untrue. Deceiving yourself will only hinder the process and require even more repairs in your quarters. Which the Inquisition can ill afford to fix. Again." Meryn winces, knowing full well she deserves the reprimand. Waking up screaming with the Fade knife pulsing after knocking out all of her windows was beginning to be a bother-to everyone it seems.

"Now go away," she says gesturing dismissively towards the door with her hand. "Leliana wants to see you-something to do with the missive you sent to the Dalish-and we will discuss your scuffle at the playhouse at a later date."

Meryn stands from her chair, thoroughly abashed at the dismissal, and apprehensive about meeting Leliana. If her suspicions about the looted elvhen ruins are correct...

She is about to open the door when a call from Josephine stills her hand on the knob. She turns, trying to keep her face in some semblance of a resigned expression to avoid offending the ambassador further, but gritting her teeth, because she knew the escape was too easy. The killing blow is on its way.

Josephine is toying with her like a cat plays with a mouse-if the mouse already has two broken legs and is blind in one eye.

"Ah yes. Lord Berris was so enchanted with you during his last visit that he will be returning for the Satinalia festivities. He has requested you save a dance for him." Jaw dropping in utter disbelief-and maybe a little bit of respect (but just a little)-Meryn turns to leave, trying to preserve what dignity she has left after getting played like a lute.

The Lord of Cheeses was coming back.

Josephine was a diabolical genius.

Notes:

Next Time: Meryn braves the rookery to receive a report of strange activity from Leliana.

Quotables: "I didn't want a repeat of the last time. Blackwall tells me the stable boy can't even look at a bird anymore without flinching."