Chapter 24

~ In the Dark ~

Frost flies from my staff, making chilly contact with the the rage demon before me. I leap out of the way as it lunges, catching its amorphous head with my staff blade. From behind, Cole sinks daggers into its back, and the fiery thing sinks back to the ground, melting away as if it had never been.

My ears prick at the song of the rift overhead. Not yet.

The Wardens fight with brutal efficiency, their blades cutting through demons with precise motions, no effort spared for flair. And yet, a wraith floats behind Caja, quiet and near invisible in the sickly light of the rift. I throw a barrier over her as it nears, and Cassandra holds up her shield beside me to catch a stray attack from a shade at my back.

"I'll cover you for the rift!" she calls. It calls to my eyes, makes me want to look at nothing else, but it's not ready, not right. There are too many demons slipping through the edges of this rift, sliding like sludge into the solid world. But I can't slow them, and I can't stop them until the rift sings differently, until it echoes sharp overtones with the scream of the anchor.

I grit my teeth and send a fireball racing toward Despair. It's been days of rain and mud and the undead. Sunshine feels half a myth, covered by layers of rock and dirt and sticky sludge, and then yet still obscured by endless rain clouds. A walking corpse tore into my shoulder yesterday, and while Solas and elfroot has helped, bruises protest the whirl of my staff.

I steady my breath.

As a shade, yet another shade, flutters before me, the Veil shifts in the room. I step behind Cassandra, and she nods as I lift my hand to the rift. The pain of it is familiar now, and perhaps less sweet than it once was. I wait for Solas' magic to aid me, but it doesn't come. He must be fighting his own battle.

I am alone.

The rift thunders as it finally closes, and darkness envelops us all.

A hand falls on my shoulders, and the warmth of skin feels so foreign compared to the cold stone beneath my knees. I'm not sure when I fell to my knees.

"Lethallan," Solas murmurs. "Ir abelas, da'len." He whispers more elven as I sit, clinging to my wrist in the dark. I can't understand any of it. Maybe if my mind were clearer, I could parse little slivers of meaning from all the soft sounds of our forgotten tongue.

Slowly, I open my eyes. Light from Vivienne and Dorian's staffs light the cavern, casting long shadows behind each of my companions. Solas searches my face, following the flutter of my eyes as I make an effort to focus my vision.

"Is everyone all right?" I ask.

"Yes, da'len. What about you?"

"I am embarrassed." I stretch my fingers, and the mark crackles on my skin, but I make an effort to smile.

"Dirthara-ma," he curses. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, if I cannot be ridiculous, I suppose I am just fine."

He tilts his head as his expression softens. "Can you stand?"

I nod and rise to shaky feet. I can feel new eyes on me - the others have seen the anchor pain me, but Hawke and the Wardens stare at me in the dim light.

"Does this happen often?" Hawke asks.

"Crawling through dwarven ruins for days until we find a rift full of demons bent on killing us?" Varric says. "All the time." He winks at me, leading Hawke toward the mouth of the cavern. "Come on, Junior. Heroes. Let's get out of this damn cave."

Slowly, Carver and the others trickle away, guided only by the light from the mage's staffs. Caja lingers, the Hero of Ferelden's silver eyes shining in the dark. The geometric tattoos that paint her face blend with shadows, until she looks cavernous, hardly separate from the stone at all.

"Come on," she calls, eyes still trained on me. "I know the way."

"Whaddya mean, you know the way?" Sera calls. "We all came here, same way as you."

"She's a dwarf," Blackwall says. "They know...cave things."

"It's called Stone sense," Caja says, smirking at Blackwall. A blush creeps above his beard, and Dorian smirks as they pass him. "All dwarves are born with it. It mostly means I can find my way pretty well underground."

"Varric, do you have Stoney smell or whatever?"

"No, Buttercup. They only hand that out to proper Orzammar dwarves."

"I know some guards who would very much like to dispute the 'proper' part."

"Aren't you a Paragon now? That's the most properly Orzammar thing that I can think of."

"What's a Paragon? Isn't that your dog?"

A smile tugs at my lips as they walk away. Paragon the Mabari barks happily from his mistress' side, and my Ghilan wags her tail, settling her great head against my leg. I scratch her ear with my still-tingling hand, and she groans with appreciation.

"I think I like her," I say to Solas, but his eyes search my face intensely, as if the source of my pain would leap from my eyes or nose or mouth.

"This rift was hard on you."

I sigh, and the two of us walk with Ghilan behind the others, bringing up the rear of our company. "Closing rifts hurts. Bigger rifts hurt more. We've known this for a long time."

"You aren't sleeping, da'len."

"Solas, I am not a child."

"Aderyn." He grabs my arm, fingers firm on my elbow. I keep my eyes trained forward and light the tip of my staff, as if banishing shadows could prevent talk of the Fade. "If you tell me what's wrong, I can help you."

"Nothing is wrong. There is simply much to do. I've had little time for sleep."

"While lying awake in your bedroll? You can fool the others, but I have not seen you in the Fade."

"Sometimes I just need time to think. Awake. Alone." Without the specter of Sloth heavy on my skin.

"There's something troubling you. I can see it."

Of course there is. And perhaps Solas is exactly the sort of knowledgeable individual I should consult. Except what had Solas called Myrrha? A spirit of Peace or Patience, that's what, but I can't afford to think of her as anything but a liability. Inquisitor. It's a word that means there are thousands of people counting on me to be their leader, to defeat their enemies and keep them safe. And that starts with avoiding becoming an abomination at all costs. Perhaps this is something the Circle got right, for I cannot be vulnerable. I cannot be the rickety thing I was before the Breach. I have to be real.

"Please, lethallin. I would prefer not to speak of it, and I am fully capable of serving the Inquisition as of now. If that changes, I will alert you." For a moment, I think he'll never let go of my arm, that his hands will stay there, firm and warm over my soft leathers. But I turn to him, and he sighs, beaten, letting his hand fall away.

"I am not worried for the Inquisitor. I am worried for you."

I let my staff darken so I won't have to look him in the eye again before moving to catch up with the others. My face wants nothing more than to settle into comfortable Tranquility, but the others are happy, the triumphant heroes of Crestwood Village. So I laugh when Alistair cracks a joke, and I smile when Vivienne loops her arm through mine.

I am Aderyn Surana, and I am just fine.

We return to Skyhold as the evening darkens. My muscles complain after days of riding, and my horse - the most docile mare the Inquisition has to offer - huffs with relief as I finally dismount in the courtyard.

Beside me, Cassandra stiffens as Josephine strides across the courtyard.

"And to work," I say to Cassandra. She sighs, and we both hand our reins to stablehands.

"This work had better involve food," she grumbles.

"You didn't like Warden Alistair's Ferelden lamb stew last night?" I tease.

"I didn't even taste it. Smelling it was quite enough."

I chuckle, and Caja snorts beside me. "We ate better in Dust Town. And we used eat moss," she says.

"You ate moss?" Sera calls.

"Don't compare the traditional dishes of my homeland to moss, dear. It hurts my feelings."

"I think just looking at it caused irreparable damage to my digestion," Dorian quips.

"It does have a certain...texture I don't normally associate with lamb."

Caja and Alistair swing their heads in unison, and grins split their faces as Leliana appears from inside the barn. She strides forward, her mouth turned up beneath her hood.

"You just missed it, salroka. We were in a camp in the woods with a whole bunch of idiots. There was even a Qunari. It was like old times." She jogs forward and pulls my aloof spymaster into a tight hug.

"What a thing to miss!" She laughs, a bright thing, like a bell. When she pulls away, she beams at Alistair. "And look at you, wonderful boy."

"Boy? Do I still look that young?" he says. "I'll have you know I have gray hairs and everything these days. I'm practically ancient." She waves his arms away from his hair as he picks through for proof, and they embrace too, old friends drinking simple moments. I glance at Hawke, Varric, and Carver, the three of them joking softly with the same familiarity.

"Inquisitor," Josephine says, glancing at Leliana as she arrives before us. "I hear we have distinguished guests in Skyhold."

They all assemble, and introductions and welcomes are passed like whiskey around a campfire. Josephine insists on providing the grand tour, and I am shocked by my own castle. It's been hardly more than a fortnight since I left a ruin behind, but Skyhold feels alive now. The hall is cleared out, the gardens are being tamed, there are rooms for all to sleep in. We even have a tavern, now. The Herald's Rest. I would have picked a different name.

Even still, this moment feels precious and fragile, all the more because I know how fleeting it will be. Soon we'll be back in the field staring death and destruction and demons in the face once more. Soon we'll have to remember that the world is crumbling. But Skyhold blazes in the night, bright and growing, and it makes me believe the world might be rebuilt.

Skyhold has kitchens, now. Real, working kitchens, the kind built to produce feasts. The Iron Bull insisted that we take our meal in the Herald's Rest instead of the main hall. So we can dance, he said. So we'd avoid nobles, he said. So we could just be us.

He's drunk, now, and it seems as though half the people I've ever met are drunk, too. The others have abandoned our table in the back for dancing or wild storytelling. Caja and Alistair stand atop a table across the room, pantomiming a drama about an expedition to the Deep Roads, while Carver provides narration. Leliana laughs with them, and I didn't think she was capable of laughing like that. Josephine leans on Leliana's arm, Sera and Blackwall heckle the performers, and the Iron Bull elbows Krem at every punchline. Elsewhere, Vivienne and Solas poke fun at some quirk of Dorian's spellcasting. Varric and Hawke occasionally roar with laughter at whatever private stories they're trading in. Everyone looks...happy. Safe.

I sit in the corner and pick at the remnants of the crusty bread that kept appearing on the table. I'm overfull of carrot soup and rich roasts, but still I snag a stray potato from the serving tray in front of me. A fleeting twinge of regret tugs at my chest that Cullen isn't here, because I'd like to see him smile, too. But he's in the valley with the soldiers, and he won't be back until tomorrow morning.

Cassandra puts a cup of wine into my hand as she returns to the seat beside me from the bar. She smiles, cheeks rosier than usual, lifting her own cup to her lips.

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Seeker?" This is my third cup of wine, which is two more than I usually allow myself.

"I'm trying to protect you from whatever swill the Iron Bull has been doling out. It smells worse than Warden Alistair's stew."

"Well, I was in no danger of drinking that. I know my limits, and nobody needs to see their Inquisitor puking all over her new tavern." I pull the wine to my lips all the same.

"Mother Giselle would be shocked."

"They'd be gossiping all the way in Val Royeaux." I pick at the base of my cup, just watching the revelry for a moment, letting the laughter and talk fill my skin with tingling sound. "Do you ever think about what would have happened if you'd found Hawke or Caja before the Conclave?"

"Truthfully? Yes."

"And?"

"Well. Hawke is impossible to keep on task when she'd rather be cracking jokes. It would be like putting Varric in charge, only worse."

"And the Warden-Commander?"

"She seems a good woman."

"You could depose me. I'd step down without a fuss," I say, and Cassandra rolls her eyes.

"I would not trade you for her. Not for anything."

"No? Why ever not? I think I'd pick her over me."

"That is because you are modest."

"Modesty is maybe a poor trait in a warrior prophetess."

"Perhaps we can disagree on that point." Her eyes wander the room, and a smile clings to her lips. "In all honesty, I do not think Caja Brosca is a woman who prays."

"Cassandra, I'm not a woman who prays."

"That is a lie! I have seen you praying. Perhaps not the same way that I pray, or Leliana does, or Cullen or Mother Giselle. But I have seen you share your faith with the people you meet, and I have seen you act with the Maker's grace. That, my friend, is something we cannot do without."

I let my face fall to something soft and Tranquil, because I don't know what to say. Believing ever so briefly in the Maker is what helped me limp to the Breach, and leaving that belief in Haven was what carried me out of the snow. But if my new, healed life wasn't some pre-ordained, finite road from the Breach to the Breach, if it wasn't ordained by a Maker that wanted me to succeed, how do I trust that every hardship before me is surmountable? How can I trust that I am enough? I can't, not even in sleep. Especially not in sleep.

"Are you all right?" Cassandra asks.

"I'm having trouble finding faith and grace just now."

"Do you know what might help?"

"Hm?"

"Sleep."

I chuckle, finishing the wine in front of me. You need rest, Little Sparrow. "Yes. Well. There are just so many exciting parties to attend in taverns, you see."

"And who can blame you? I think I am finished with this one, however." She gets up and puts her hand on my shoulder, fingers relaxed and warm over the travel leathers I still wear. "I will be praying in the gardens tomorrow morning. You are free to join me, my friend."

My chest tightens at the offer, but I nod. "Thank you, Cassandra."

"Maker be with you this night, Aderyn Surana."

Hours later, Skyhold is quiet.

I left the tavern on Cassandra's heels, and the warmth of wine is all but gone. All that remains is a heaviness in my limbs and the call of my bed. I changed into a wool tunic and a simple skirt, the most comfortable clothing I could find in a wardrobe full of unfamiliar finery.

I tiptoe through Josephine's office. I've left dreaming to Ghilan, whose long legs stretch across my absurdly large bed. I know the war room will have a pile of reports and letters for me to sort through, orders for me to sift and sign.

I need something to do.

The door to the war room gives easily under my push, yet another thing oiled and repaired since I was here last. Soft torchlight beyond betrays another presence, a silhouette clad in wool and the remnants of half-discarded armor.

"Ad - a - Inquisitor." Cullen looks up from all his pieces on the map, and shadows pool in his features. His armor is mostly piled up beside him, and his shirtsleeves are pushed to his elbow to reveal muscled forearms. "I - I didn't expect you to be awake. I would have come to see you if I - I'd known."

"Josephine said you were in the valley with the troops," I say. My feet refuse to move from the doorway.

"I was. I, um - I returned not long ago."

"Oh." My eyes dart to the pile of documents that no doubt belong to me, and my feet itch to grab them and flee back upstairs where Cullen can't see me stand waking in the night.

"You're awake," he offers, and I'm not sure if he's concerned or simply making conversation.

"Yes." My eyes flicker to his, and I find that I'm hungry to remember every nuance of every fleck of color in his golden eyes after weeks away. "So are you."

"Right. I was just - I had thought to get a little work taken care of. I have a dozen minor lords reporting rifts on their lands, and a dozen more complaining of demons disturbing their flower beds. It sounds as though Crestwood will need men to rebuild after the undead you stopped. And there are still mages that need escorts from the Hinterlands. What Templars we have are spread thin as it is, and suddenly it feels as though half of our army is made of boys and girls who far overestimate their skill and experience with swordplay. I need to - "

The anchor flashes ever so briefly on my palm, spraying green light through the room, and sending a sharp spike of pain from my palm to my shoulder. Cullen stops in the middle of his rambling. The pain in his eyes is a reflection of mine, magnified in the night.

"It is nothing," I whisper. "I would prefer if you did not trouble yourself."

"Addie." He's at my side as if there was never a war table between us at all. His warm hands pick up my mine, and he folds out my fingers ever so gently, until the anchor shines between us. It doesn't matter that our last conversation was about the Gallows. In the dark, in this moment, we are just him and me. I close my eyes and steady my breathing, and the simple divinity of holding his hand plays a sweet harmony with the sound of my name on his lips.

"It's keeping you awake."

"No. I think it's complaining that I'm not sleeping, actually." I sigh, pulling my hand from his. "That wasn't reassuring, was it?"

"You could be honest instead. I'd - I'd like that."

Being honest with Cullen is a terrible idea, of course. Remember how I've been telling you to trust mages? Well, you can't even trust me, because I've been cavorting with a demon every night since I woke up in Haven. But still. Please. Trust other mages.

And yet, what if Myrrha gets in? What if I grow so tired that I don't want to wake up in the morning? I've been that tired. Before, in Haven, when I was still a woman who prayed. All I wanted was rest. It could happen again. I could go to gardens tomorrow with Cassandra, I could pray for rest, and Myrrha could give it to me. Someone has to be ready. Just in case, they have to be ready.

I clear my throat and point at a pile of paper tucked away in the corner of the room. "Josephine suggested that there might be a few letters waiting for me."

"I doubt she suggested you come down here in the middle of the night to read them."

"Well, if you don't tell the First Enchanter that I was up past curfew, I won't tell the Knight-Commander that you were wandering the library after your patrol."

He laughs, low and quiet, like he used to during those illicit nights in the tower's library when the two of us were pretending not to seek each other out. Not that anything untoward ever happened. Mostly, he'd search the stacks for the most ridiculous books he could find and leave them on the table like gifts. Summoning Goats for Temporary Farming. A Brief History of Ferelden Puppetry. The Magical Enhancement of Psychedelic Plants. And I in turn would leave little spelled wisps floating through the library, shaped like goats or puppets or mushrooms. It was a simpler time, though perhaps not as simple as my memory paints it.

Tonight, he leads me to my pile of letters, and the two of us settle into an easy silence. His shoulders hunch over the war table, taking seemingly endless notes about troop movements and numbers and their level of training. I settle onto a little seat under a window, the stained glass dark and rich in the night.

The letters vary. Some are merely introductions from wealthy brown nosers. Others are thanks from farmers or townspeople who live near closed rifts. Some are inquiries about missing family members, and those swim in my sleepy vision. Dear Inquisitor, Did you see an elven lass named Nehn in Crestwood? Dear Inquisitor, Have you seen my brother, Bevin? He was last seen in Redcliffe Village. Dear Inquisitor, Maybe you met my wife in Haven. Her name is Raina, and she has yellow hair and green eyes you wouldn't forget. Dear Inquisitor. Dear Inquisitor. Dear Inquisitor…

I open my eyes in a familiar room, where tables of tea stretch to the foggy horizon, where books fill stacks and familiar, comfortable things press around me like heavy blankets. I've been avoiding this place, I know. I've been avoiding it, and I don't know why.

"Hello."

Myrrha watches me from far away, but I can see everything about her clearly, so clearly that she might be inches from my face. Red curls in distinct spirals, every burst of blue in her eyes, the delicate bow of her mouth. I fight the urge to go to her, to sing sweet songs from a half-remembered alienage, the kind my mother used to sing for me. I had a mother, once.

"I can't be here," I say.

"Then why do you keep coming back?" She tilts her head, as if she's never called me back here through the Fade. She knows what I don't want to admit. That I want to be here.

Maker take me to his side, but I want.

I pull air sharply into my lungs, fingers seeking something to hold, something real, solid, unchanging. I find stone beneath me and fur around. The smell of fire smoke clings to my nose, second hand scents tickling at my memory.

I roll my neck, trying to work out the kinks of awkward sleep. Soft torchlight illuminates the war room as my eyes open reluctantly, dry from too-brief rests.

Cullen stands at the other end of the room, and his eyes find mine in the dark. It's still dark.

"How long was I asleep?" I ask. As I shift on my perch beneath the window, I realize the fur I have in my fists are Cullen's, the one he wears draped over his armor. I will my fingers to loosen their grip.

"Not long."

"Right." I let out a shaky breath and reach for another letter. Dear Inquisitor…

"Addie," Cullen says. "The letters will be here in the morning. You can go to bed."

You could be honest instead. But being honest with Cullen is a terrible idea. I pick up another letter. Dear Inquisitor… Cullen pulls it from my hand, putting it back on the top of the pile.

"If I sleep, I will dream. I prefer not to dream," I whisper. His brow creases over sleepless eyes, and his fingertips brush the edge of my brand.

"You don't mean that," he murmurs, and a bitter laugh falls from my lungs, easy as breathing. He holds me close anyway, pulling me from the window and to my feet. I slip easily into his arms, and he tucks my head under his chin. It happens too easily, like a lock and key, simple as a game an apprentice and a Templar played in the library after dark. "You can tell me what's bothering you."

You could be honest.

I'm not sure what honesty means anymore. I prefer not to be Tranquil. But I also prefer not to see Myrrha, even though I want to. That wanting is illogical, a dangerous thought from a silly girl. I prefer to be awake, I prefer to be working, I prefer to be helpful. I want to stay in Cullen's arms forever. That's honest. I want to tell him truths that I know would make him recoil. That's honest, too.

I wrap my arms tight around his waist. I don't want to go back to being mage and Templar, danger and jailor. But maybe there was something necessary about that after all. Maybe I needed the comfort of knowing that if I gave in, I'd be stopped. Maybe knowing that will help me sleep.

"Cullen," I whisper. I pull away, giving us space to fill old shoes. "If I were to become possessed, would you...?"

I expect him to nod solemnly. I've asked him this question before, more or less. After my Harrowing, while we were awkwardly stuttering at each other in the wake of success, I needed to know the truth then, too. It put space between us, and that felt safe. I serve the Chantry and the Maker, and I will do as I am commanded. I knew that was honest. I knew it would stop me from getting too close.

But tonight, in the war room that is nothing like the Tower library, the war room that is cold and new and dangerous, revulsion slides over his features.

"How could you ask me something like that?" He steps farther away, head shaking slowly as his hands begin to quiver.

"Cullen - "

"Please, don't say it again." His boots scrape against stone floor, and his shoulders hunch where he usually stands tall.

"You are angry."

"Of course I'm angry." He looks to the ceiling, as if he might see right to the sky and the heavens, or maybe just so he won't have to look at me. "Maker's breath, Addie, you didn't want me to watch any of the other mages, no matter how limited the oversight. And now you want me to what? Volunteer to be your personal executioner? No. No, I won't listen to this."

"I need to sleep, Cullen. I need to know that if a demon wakes in my skin, that you'll take care of it. You are a Templar. You know - "

"No." His eyes blaze as they find mine. "No, I am not a Templar anymore. I am not bound by their rules; I am not bound to the Chantry, I am my own man, and I will not promise to end your life."

"We have to be practical."

"I am being practical!" He curses fluently, all husky words half obscured by his breathing. "You're the Inquisitor. You're the only one who can close rifts. And you want me to say what, exactly? Rest easy, mage, for if you should fall to evil, I will end you before you can hurt anyone?"

I back away until my back hits the heavy wooden door, carvings biting into my shoulder blades. "Something like that," I murmur.

"You have asked me over and over to trust mages. To expect the best of people, and allow them to rise to the occasion."

"Cullen."

"Don't, Addie. Don't you dare tell me that you alone are personally unworthy of such a courtesy. I know better." He walks toward me, and I will myself to sink through the wood of the door, so that I don't have to tell him that I'm too tired to fight. That I thought I was chosen, but I was wrong. That against all odds, faith in the Maker was what allowed me to live with my demon. He stops in front of me, when the space between us is skinny and tenuous.

"What if I can't do it?"

"You can. I have faith in you." His breath brushes the edge of my lips. My heart pounds at his closeness, at the warmth of his skin near mine and the faint glow of torchlight in his golden eyes. Maybe this is enough. Maybe his faith in me is enough reason to keep waking up. I'm too tired to think, and yet I still remember the taste of his mouth. My scars itch on my back as his hand catches tears I don't remember shedding. And yet.

"Why?" I ask.

And then, he says what I have always wanted him to say. "Because you, Aderyn Surana, are extraordinary."

That should be enough. I want to lean forward and let my lips meet his, let my racing heart pound against his chest. And yet, my mouth crawls with the memory of invading tongues. I want to slip my hands under his shirt like I did in Haven, and let him explore my skin in turn. And yet.

I spin away and push open the door, so the hallway to Josephine's stretches in front of me. My eyes dart to Cullen and away again, just long enough to see the confusion on his face.

"I'm sorry." I take a deep breath and ball my hands into fists to keep from reaching for the edge of my scars. "I mean - thank you. I am...I will see you in the morning."

My footfalls echo through my sleeping fortress as I return to my room.