Dorian Pavus missed his real calling. Necromancer, mage, magister, rebel lord, fashion inspiration, he could manage them all, but it wasn't what he was best at. No, what the man excelled at was driving Maria crazy with his nannying.
"Dorian." She hoped his name sounded as venomous as a swear word, because she was quickly beginning to think of it like one as she splashed cold water on her face. "If you try to make me rest here one more second, the least of our problems is going to be the mountain of trouble I bailed on in Halamshiral."
She raised her eyes to his in challenge, blinking the water from her eyelashes. "That is the second time you've vomited since we started this miserable trek." Dorian accused, narrowing his eyes. "By Andraste's knickers, I don't even remember the last thing you ate and kept down."
She thought it was a piece of bread before their second to last disastrous voyage into the crossroads, which would have been… over a day ago? Her body demanded food, but the thought of actually putting anything in her mouth made her want to vomit. Again.
"I'm fine." She had to be, there wasn't any room for weakness. Not anymore.
"Fasta vass. You are certainly not fine." Dorian's piercing eyes swept over her, leaving a scorching trail over her skin. "If I'd have known this journey by foot would be so trying for you, I would have insisted on another plan. If you would have just admitted how awful you felt…"
Dorian missed the humor in his statement. She'd been hiding how the anchor affected her for three years so as not to frighten anyone, why in the world would Dorian think she'd admit how shitty she felt now? But that didn't bother her, not really. She knew pain, grown used to the way her arm ached even on the best days. During her tenure as Inquisitor, she faced injury the way she faced diplomatic events, with a grim and fatalistic determination. She couldn't even count the number of broken bones, burns, slashes, and gashes she'd had to have healed and stitched up.
The aching muscles of her entire right side served as a great distraction from the void where her heart used to be. Served to keep her from laying down and just shutting her eyes. Damnit, she felt exhausted, body and soul. It didn't help that Dorian effectively prevented her from pursuing her dream of just… vanishing into thin air. Cole would have allowed her, but Dorian seemed determined to drag her by her hair to Val Chevin.
And yet… she couldn't find the energy to slip Dorian and take the countryside on her own. Not yet, anyway.
"I'm just tired." The understatement of the age. Once, Zarra told her she'd been weary in her very bones. A younger Maria, a careless and reckless young woman, laughed at an old lady's complaints. Maria wished she didn't need to eat her own words now.
"We've put enough distance between us and Halamshiral. Surely we can give you a moment to close your eyes. It isn't wise to travel in broad daylight regardless, since you're now as much a pariah as I am." Dorian wheedled, leaning over and acting as if he meant to place a gentle hand on her lower back. Maria stiffened and Dorian paused, unsure, before letting his hand drop limply to his side. "Perhaps we can rest in that lovely looking barn with the dirty and smelly animals. It sounds utterly horrific and like a perfect way to avenge yourself upon me for ruining what I'm sure was an absolutely masterful plan of self-destruction."
"I was not…"
Before she could finish, Cole appeared with a lump of something brown in one hand and his soothing voice trickling like the stream over the rocks beneath them. "Safer without me. Let the gods tear my bones apart in their war, but let them be safe."
Dorian crossed his arms over his chest in satisfaction, begging her to argue the point more. Maria didn't rise to the bait, taking the odd brown lump from Cole's hand and sniffing it experimentally.
"Ginger." Cole smiled. "Like…"
Like the cookies Lottie brought her after the incident with the cabbage stew. Maria swallowed against the bile rising back up her throat. Lottie who'd been spying on her the whole time, Lottie who seemed so fucking happy that Maria was expecting a child. Maria remembered Lottie stroking her damp hair back kindly and insisted she'd feel better if she just ate the cookies she offered.
"I'm sorry." She heard Cole start to panic, saw him glare down at the root in his hand. "I meant to help, I wanted to help."
"It's alright sweetheart." Maria's voice sounded dull to her own ears. Cole meant well. Cole always meant well.
She didn't have the heart any longer to argue with Dorian when he steered her into the barn, hiding them in an empty hay loft. She blinked slowly up at the golden light streaming through the doors and fought the urge to sob until she finally allowed exhaustion to overwhelm her.
Fynn's fingers covered her eyes because he couldn't trust her not to peek. He had his other arm around her waist as they moved forward slowly, guiding her through the forge. Maria laughed breathlessly as they staggered forward awkwardly. He chuckled ruefully against her neck, pressing a warm teasing kiss just below her ear.
"Right." Maria stopped when her hips hit the table in front of her. "Now, if you're planning to bend me over and…"
"Maybe later." Her neck prickled at the veiled promise and desire bloomed under her skin, curled into liquid heat in her belly. Instead of removing his hand from her eyes immediately, he nuzzled into the empty hollow of her neck. His beard tickled her sensitive flesh and made her knees go weak when he pulled her tighter to his chest.
It had been three months. Three glorious, perfect months. Three months sneaking into Fynn's bed any night she could, three months valiantly trying, and failing, to teach him to shoot a bow. Three months perched on his tables, watching him work, letting their conversation fall like easy, gentle rain. Even their arguments, and Maker they still had them, seemed to be part of a glorious pattern where she always ended up in his arms, in his bed, laughing while he worshipped her like she was an offering to an old god.
"Ready?" He asked against the lobe of her ear.
"I'm always ready." She purred, rubbing against him like a cat. He laughed again, pulling his hand from her eyes, leaving her to blink away the golden light streaming through his windows owlishly. She needed to do so several times before she fully comprehended the shining sleek blades on the table. A perfect pair, the metal bright and polished, an elaborate and smooth ivory handle curling delicately on each. Worked on the handles, lovingly, were her initials the way she signed them sometimes when she wanted to look important.
"Bea is going to be so jealous." Maria reached for them covetously, giggling in delight as she turned one over in her hand, catching sight of their reflections in the metal.
"Magpie stole the prototype last week when she nearly caught us snogging in the courtyard." Fynn admitted. "I couldn't even ask you to get it back and risk ruining the surprise."
She laughed, delighted, placing one blade down and picking up the twin. "I can't even get it back now, she lost it in a card game days ago. I wondered where she got it from."
She hummed a note as she finished speaking, flicking her wrist to test the way the blade felt leaving her hand, caught again in her careful fingers. "Well, Dunhark, I think this may be your finest work, but if you expect me to pay for them…"
"I'll accept an I owe you. This time." He teased fondly. "I hope you like them."
He was so proud of them, and he had every right to be. They were the finest daggers she'd handled in her life. She turned her head to tell him so, but the gleaming emotions in his eyes stopped her short.
Instead of thank you, something else came out. Something altogether more vulnerable and honest than she meant to be. "I love you."
She'd never said that before, not to a man. Not to anyone except her grandmother and Bea. But seeing the childish wonder on Fynn's face nearly made it worth the flush of cringeworthy embarrassment. Nearly.
"Right. Didn't… didn't mean to just blurt that out." She laughed, it sounded too high for her ears. She wondered, panic stricken, if Nanna needed someone to leave the Free Marches for a couple weeks.
"I'm not quite sure I heard you." Fynn's voice rumbled with suppressed laughter. "I think you should repeat it."
"Oh you ass." She squirmed against him, trying to free herself from his tight grip. He loosened his arms just enough for her to slide away, but he immediately caged her against the table instead. His strong, rough fingers pried the blade out of her hand and sat it gently beside its mate behind them.
His eyes were the ocean, the emotions shifting behind them like the tide, his expression devastatingly somber. "Me too."
She wanted to laugh. Instead, she captured his face in her hands and crashed his lips to hers. In a moment, everything else dropped away. The forge, the fire behind her, the blades on the table, vanished into thin air. It was just them, always just them.
"Say it again." Fynn demanded, popping the buttons on her coat and tugging it off impatiently.
"Your turn." She challenged with a breathless laugh. Fynn's arms circled her waist, hefting her easily onto the edge of the low table and slipping into the space between her spread thighs.
"I love you, you foolish mad woman." He growled against her neck, both of his hands tearing her shirt from her breeches and over her head. It landed somewhere behind them and she desperately hoped it wasn't in the fire. "I love you so much, I can hardly stand it. Now say it again."
She knew that feeling. "I love you." She pressed her lips to his temple as he pulled at the laces of her bustier, freeing her breasts to rest in his solid hands. She whined, hips pushing up against his as he dipped his head to taste her skin, to drive her to distraction with his greedy mouth. One arm circled her waist, the other covered her neglected breast. She tipped her head back, groaning in desperate need.
She straightened her head again to look down at him, to urge him on, but it wasn't him her eyes found. Over Fynn's head, a man stood in the doorway to the shop. His eyes were greedy, predatory, fixed on the hand covering her naked breast over Fynn's shoulder. She froze as effectively as if she'd had a bucket of ice water dumped over her.
Fynn's father's smirked at her while he pulled the door silently shut behind him and it made her blood run cold. "Fynn, Fynn stop." She didn't know whether to push him away or pull him closer. She dropped her eyes quickly, bringing her arms up over her chest as Fynn looked up, instantly concerned, his hands dropping from her skin.
His concern turned to fury in a second, the moment her heard his father's dark chuckle. "Lad, I must admit, I didn't think you had it in you."
She'd never been more humiliated in her life. Her skin crawled with the weight of the older man's appreciative gaze and she felt a burn in the back of her throat. In an instant, Fynn pulled her off the table. He settled her discarded coat around her shoulders and she tugged it tightly around her body while Fynn rounded on his father.
"Get out." He snarled, blocking her with his bulk.
"Nothing to be embarrassed of, boy." The man chuckled again. "She is a pretty thing, even for Carta."
This was the kind of talk she could handle if she just had her fucking shirt on, if she had her bow on her back. If she…
"GET OUT!" Fynn roared and Maria winced. It didn't matter, not any more. They'd been caught, which was always bound to happen. And there'd be consequences, which she knew. She'd known and…
When she looked up from the floor, it wasn't Fynn in front of her. It was Varric, his eyes bright and shining, his hand pulling her forward as all the nobles broke into scandalized whispers, the glittering ballroom around them like something from a dream. Maybe a nightmare. The silk of her dress clung to her curves and she felt as naked as she did that day in Fynn's shop.
It didn't matter if she saved the world a hundred times, there'd always be people who thought of her as a Carta rat luring their good men into sin.
"I'll stay like this forever, Princess." He warned, his hand warm under hers. And he would, he would because Varric loved her. Varric, steady as a rock, unmovable, unshakable.
"I love you." She whispered against the tears. "Tell me you know that."
He grinned at her before he spoke his dare. "Prove it."
"Cadash." Dorian called, loudly. "I have been informed by Cole that these... beasts in here require milking twice a day, and that we'll be frightening several peasants if we don't move on soon."
She flinched away from his yell, raising her hand to her head. Or, at least, she tried to. She forgot she didn't have a hand there, remembered it all over again, a wave of despair crashing over her before she even opened her eyes.
"Still dreaming." Cole whispered. "Even without the mark. Varric is waiting. Always waiting."
"Interesting." She didn't need to open her eyes to know Dorian stroked his mustache as he looked down at her with the same expression he gave books that held particularly complex problems.
"Cows." She stated firmly to distract him. "The beasts are called cows. They make milk, which gets made into those awful cheeses you like."
"The left hand cries." Maria opened her eyes, looked directly up into Cole's pensive frown. "She remembers an unscarred face, but it's been so long. Hands shake when she pulls me close, hat falls off. I'm too late, but she doesn't care. We were girls once, long ago. The world made sense then. It doesn't now. Am I a pawn in someone's game? Have I always been?"
"He hears you better now, apparently. So welcome to the 'have Cole broadcast your thoughts aloud in embarrassing moments club.' Perhaps we'll finally hear some of your naughty fantasies."
"That's not me." Maria propped herself up out of the hay, narrowing her eyes as she swept them across the barn. "Cole, who is it?"
Cole frowned even more deeply. "I… it's gone now. It was hard to hear."
Maria heard a crow caw from outside and waited another heartbeat before she pushed her aching body back up and brushed golden straw from her hair. "We should be going anyway."
Dorian paused, staring at her thoughtfully before turning to Cole. "Be a dear and see if outside is clear. We'll be along in a moment."
Cole nodded with determination, hurrying off and sliding down the loft ladder. Dorian sighed, kneeling next to Maria and reaching out his hand as if he would take hers. He paused above her skin, meeting her eyes. "May I?"
Her skin prickled but she nodded anyway and Dorian slowly engulfed her one remaining hand between both of his. His palms seared her skin, made her want to pull away. She stared at the place where they were joined in something like mute horror.
"Do you have a plan, Maria?" He asked softly. "Beyond 'be utterly insufferably noble and cause my friends to develop ulcers', do you have any idea what you'll do now?"
She didn't answer. Dorian sighed, bringing their hands to his forehead and closing his eyes. "My dear, do you know what Bull said when you awoke? He looked right at me and said you had the look in your eyes he remembered from Seheron, the way people just gave up. I called him a fool, declared you weren't one to surrender blindly to circumstance. And yet… the moment I saw you intended to send us all from you, I knew he was right."
Bull saw the abyss nobody else wanted to see. Bull always saw what nobody else wanted to see. Bull knew she'd been starving after the spa, knew she carried a baby in her before almost anyone else, Bull knew when she lied nearly as well as Varric did.
"I'm going to fight him, Dorian." She had to, she'd been given no other choice.
"Venhedis, of course you will. That was never in question. The moment I heard him… the moment he decided not to be convinced by your pleas, I knew that if you survived that, one day you'd face him again. I knew it in my bones." Dorian's shoulders shuddered and he took a shallow breath.
"I tried to kill him." Her last act of defiance. Dorian laughed hollowly, bitterly.
"Not shocking. That's the woman I know and love, the one who tried to kill a God with her last breath." Dorian released her hand and she pulled it back to herself quickly before he could grab it again, clenching a fistful of hay with it.
"Is this what this is, then? Your penance for failing?" Dorian asked, waving an annoyed arm at her. "You send away all the people you love most because you couldn't kill Solas when you had the opportunity? You do realize there was a mountain of extenuating circumstances, the most important being that you were very much on borrowed time."
"I can't win." The admission burned her tongue. "I can't. I won't. No matter what happens, no matter what comes next, you're right. I'll end up in front of him. With no hidden magic power, no arm, no bow, nothing."
The abyss swelled inside her, and she finally recognized it for what it was. Defeat. "I'll lose and the world will burn, but not before every single one of you noble idiots tries to save my life." She knew that, because she watched them do it once. "Again."
She was destined to lose because she was only mortal, because she was simply a dwarf from Ostwick, a Carta rat who stumbled into a movement and a moment larger than her. What chance did she have against gods?
"My friend." Dorian blinked against the tears in his eyes. "Do you really believe it was your magic that saved us? Your arm or your bow?"
That's what made her special. That's what made her who she was, and it was gone. She stared at him blankly and his sorrow turned to fierce indignation.
"You." He declared, standing up. "It was always you, Maria. And it always will be. You'll see, in time."
She knew the guild would follow her, so while she felt vaguely annoyed, she wasn't particularly surprised when Cole whispered that they were coming. Why else would the former Inquisitor slip out of Halamshiral like a thief unless she was smuggling someone out with her? A very meddlesome younger Cadash, perhaps?
The more concerning thing, in her opinion, was the Cole seemed to be having a small meltdown. He definitely heard something, patchwork pieces of thoughts, but all somewhat related. Or she hoped they were, at least. It'd be bad enough one person was following them mysteriously, let alone a group.
"Sunlight through canvas, black ink over tanned skin, pale hands against his chest."
"Face serious for a child, too serious, his father's right. More time outside, out of these books. I'll talk to her. Make her see."
"Mine. Can't leave him now, not when he clutches onto me like this. Family is what you choose it to be."
"Sees blood on his hands when he looks at them, weary when he's not laughing."
"This is becoming a bit alarming." Dorian muttered darkly. "Cole, are you…"
"The shape is wrong and right." Cole muttered. "Hides. Shifts and shapes. Can't catch me if I can fly away."
"Somebody is following us." A mage? Solas? Somebody who could confuse Cole couldn't be treated as anything other than a grave threat. Maria pursed her lips shut tightly, considering. "Guild first, then we loop around and see if we can find the source of these thoughts."
A crow cawed above her as if agreeing. Maria ignored it as a flight of fancy on her part, pushing back sweat damp hair from her face and testing the weight of the blade in her hand. Damnit, she missed her bow so much she could taste it.
Bea gave Varric a half dozen throwing knives, a few bottles of poison, and another wicked blade to put in Maria's bags. The throwing knives were good, if she could remember how to throw them. It'd been a long time since she'd played with blades, hadn't done so really since leaving the Carta. She'd been too busy as Inquisitor. Still, she'd been able to hit a tree several times, so she supposed she'd have to see.
She wouldn't risk the poison on them just yet, though. She felt reasonably certain that Bea left her the antidote to the Wyvern venom in one of the other little jars, but just in case it wasn't actually the antidote, better safe than sorry.
She needn't have worried, the blade that launched into the unguarded throat of the first mercenary didn't require poison to be lethal. It landed right, embedded in an artery that would bleed out in seconds. Make it quick and clean, she'd been taught as a girl. Zarra helped her kill her first man when she was barely fifteen.
She killed hundreds since then, but none of them stuck with her the way that first one did. Maybe she learned after that not to watch as the light left someone's eyes. The only time she could bring herself to do it now was when it seemed more merciful than not, like when the wound was too deep and she was too far away from the healers, or when the red lyrium corruption was too far gone.
It'd been a long time since she'd washed her hands and not seen blood still stuck in her pores. She waded through enough of it in her life that she felt when she finally did die, she'd actually drown in it.
She had enough time for one more knife, this one slicing through leather and in between ribs before she needed to pull her own blade. The man that fell was rising again, irises purple, a puppet to Dorian's power.
She slew dragons once, it was almost a bit insulting to think that the guild thought a dozen mercs could cut her down. Particularly with Cole and Dorian by her side.
She didn't even have time to slam her knife home into the unguarded armpit of another attacker before she felt the crackle of ozone, the prickle of electricity on the back of her neck. She swore she could smell it before the lightning struck, bouncing from one to another.
The mercenary in front of her fell to the ground lifeless and Maria glared at Dorian. "I could do it, you know. Stop coddling me."
Dorian's eyes held barely concealed worry. "That, my dear woman, was not me."
"Her." Cole's breath rushed out, his eyes fixed somewhere past Maria. "Yes. The bird flies free and it's the last thought Rhys's mom has before she falls. Better to her than my own, Maker forgive me. Maker watch over her. Her."
Maria twirled as quickly as she could, feeling the ache in her muscles protest against the movement. A figure stood behind her, still as one of the trees, a staff held loosely in one hand, the other nonchalantly tucking a strand of dark hair away from her eyes, revealing a wicked scar running the length of her cheek.
Maria realized with a start that the woman could be Hawke's sister, the only difference in their eyes and a general softness instead of Hawke's sharper pixie features. The woman took a small step forward, inclining herself in a neat half bow as the rest of the mercenaries dropped to the ground.
"Inquisitor." Her voice sounded softer than she expected it to, almost shy, and she smiled when she said the title.
"Not anymore." Maria corrected stiffly. It had to be her, it couldn't be anyone else. She seemed nearly identical to how Varric described her, although perhaps older. She didn't recall him mentioning the scar. "Warden." She greeted cautiously.
Amell's smile didn't falter, but only seemed to take on an amused lilt that reminded her even more of Hawke. "Not anymore."