FOLKS, my apologies, this chapter somehow got lost in the shuffle. This chapter happens right before "Spot the Spook". I am posting it now, and I know it's out of order, but feel free to read it to fill in some more details. It's mostly fun/light-hearted.

In which the team discusses the concept of free will, and tries on their new masks.

Chapter 37: Just Pretend

Their departure gets pushed up by one day, and they leave at dusk the next evening. Their contingent, in addition to the ground team of four, includes a support group that will stay outside of Redcliffe to gather whatever mages they can round up, convey messages to headquarters, and act as backup if shit hits the fan. In addition to the Chargers and Sera, they have a new companion — an enchanter by the name of Ellandra, a somewhat austere woman Margo immediately takes a liking to, who volunteered "ethnographic details" — meaning intel — on Redcliffe. On the first march, Margo learns about phylacteries from her, and she spends the rest of the day feeling vaguely nauseated and not a little furious on the mages' behalf. The Chantry certainly likes its leashes, chemical or otherwise.

The journey, however, is harrowing, and it leaves little time to socialize. Whatever political choreography is happening around the Templars — something about an Orlesian noble throwing in his support with the Inquisition — Evie and her team had to leave in a hurry, and in secret. Bull, apparently under Leliana's orders, pushes his team to cover the distance in three days to beat the news of Evie's decision. They walk for forteen, fifteen hours straight, with only a brief stop for lunch and the occasional skirmish, and Margo simply collapses on her bedroll, with barely enough energy to skim a chapter from the Genitivi — an instructive read, but she's barely managing to keep focus — and pop a small lichen strip into her mouth before closing her eyes. She is too exhausted to dream.

The plan is relatively simple, and by the time they reach the outskirts of Redcliffe, Margo's heard it so many times that if someone were to wake her up in the middle of the night she could recite it verbatim. Get past the guards at the northern entrance to the village — the one with the new ferry over the lake, apparently added because the south gate is blocked by a particularly unpleasant Fade rift — without drawing attention to Dorian. The minstrel disguise, carefully distributed among them, is as equally designed to grant them access as it is to deflect attention from the Tevinter mage. Bull speculates that if Alexius gets wind of his former mentee's return, Dorian will be summoned into his presence, and there will be little chance for them to reconnoiter without scrutiny. The advantage of the minstrel disguise, in addition to appearing innocuous, is that it is so damn absurd. No one will suspect a self-respecting Tevinter altus — apparently the correct title for Dorian — to pretend to be an itinerant entertainer. Or so the theory goes. After they're in, the goal is to set up in the tavern, identify the dissidents, and smuggle them out.

"You know Alexius will eventually discover that I have wandered back," Dorian cautions, as they share their dinner of dried meat and bread. "We will need a plausible story once we are inside."

Bull nods. "Yeah. I've thought of it. We're gonna bring the costuming down a notch once we're in place. When your Vint magister shows up, you're gonna say we're with you and that you've returned to the fold. As far as he's concerned, I'm your Tal-Vashoth bodyguard." He gestures at Solas. "He's your manservant, or whatever. And she's your entertainer."

Margo glances at Solas. His expression seems placid enough, but his eyes are thunderous in a suddenly ashen face. "I believe 'slave' would be more accurate, would it not?"

"Easy there, Solas." Bull's voice is deceptively light. "It's just pretend. You think it doesn't chafe to introduce myself as a Tal-Va-fucking-shoth?"

"I gather you prefer the status of a mindless thrall, subservient to an ideology that suppresses any expression of autonomy?"

Margo blinks. There is almost something a little feral under Solas's civil tone.

Bull's response is deceptively nonchalant. "Do you really think you're free, Solas? What about that guy we passed in the Crossroads, the one who's barely able to scrape by and feed his kids. Think he's free? What about the cute redhead who offered to take you out back for a couple of coppers when we were getting the waterskins filled? She free, too?"

"I do believe that one was exercising a great deal of free will," Dorian interjects with truly spectacular poise. Not even a twitch of a smile. Margo focuses on nibbling on her bread crust and pretends that the pebbles stuck in the sole of her boot are truly fascinating geological finds. She had missed that particular episode.

"They still are capable of choice within the range of possibilities afforded to them. Your religion would deny them that."

Margo's eyes drift to the elf. To say that he looks peeved would be like saying that strychnine causes breathing difficulties. Also, his ears have gone pink.

"Watch out, Bull." Sera stretches out next to Margo by the campfire and takes a huge bite from a strip of jerky. She speaks around the food, so the words come out a little muffled. "You're about to be told how the elfy elves are the most 'auto-mo-nous' elves that have ever elved in Thedas. Because, elven glory, yah?" She accompanies this by a rather lewd gesture miming a giant phallus.

"Sera, I said nothing about elves. Although, why do you hold our people in such low regard?"

"Just cuz I don't whinge and moan about how we were so grand once? Egh. You do that well enough for the both of us, yah? Got better things."

Margo sighs. Oy. This is going to go splendidly.

"What about you, Blondie? You think you're free?"

Margo starts. Considering Maile's cumulative clusterfuck of bad decisions, made in spectacularly shitty circumstances, she isn't sure whose position she finds more compelling. But this isn't just idle philosophical conversation. This feels like staking political claims over bloody conflicts that are neither abstract nor ancient history. She considers how to navigate the Scylla and Charybdis of the two irreconcilable frameworks.

"Depends. Are we talking about freedom to , or freedom from ?" She gets two very speculative sets of eyes trained on her for her trouble. Though, one and a half set of eyes would be more accurate. Right. It is unlikely that the members of her new social circle are interested in hearing about Immanuel Kant, or the long history of her own world's debates on the hoary topic of individual liberty and free will. She hugs her knees to her chest, suddenly heartsick with her hopeless dislocation. Dorian and Sera are waiting expectantly. All they're missing is a bowl of popcorn between them. But the other two sport remarkably similar expressions that suggest that her answer might matter for their further classificatory filing of her. Not to mention that anything she says is just going to get weaponized in their irresolvable debate.

Margo doesn't like it, but there's nothing to be done about it. Better suck it up.

"You're both assuming that there is a particular kind of 'self' making a choice," she finally says, because extricating herself from this discussion entirely seems like the best possible approach, and the only strategy that comes to mind is to throw the "no-self" kitchen sink at them... and then run. "Whether it's autonomous or predetermined, you're assuming a willful person at the center." She stifles a yawn, and turns to Bull. "Can spirits be part of the Qun?"

That seems to throw the Qunari for a loop. He frowns. "They're spirits , Blondie. What are you sayin'?"

"Exactly. They are their respective natures, no more, no less. They cannot be other than what they are. Doesn't the Qun argue the same thing about everyone else? So isn't excluding them illogical?"

He looks uneasy. Ha. Got one. Margo catches Solas's eyes on her, and the look he is giving her is… She's not sure what it is, but cats and canaries come to mind. She turns to face him. Not so fast, buddy. "Solas, from what I understand, the Tranquil are completely rational." She wants to say something to the effect that they are perfect embodiments of the idea of "rational choice," but decides the elf probably doesn't want a rant on Adam Smith. "They are capable of making clear-headed, logical decisions. They are not influenced by social mores or by their own passions. In this, they are perfect examples of autonomous individuality. Yet, you consider them damaged beyond repair."

"They are severed from the Fade, lethallan… They desire nothing, and hence their full ability to choose is taken from them by definition." The elf is frowning. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that.

"Are you suggesting that it is our desires that constitute our freedom to choose?"

"Of course. One may choose, or choose not to choose. One can go with or against one's desires. That, in itself, is a form of freedom."

This amuses Bull to no end. "What was that, Solas? 'Cause you just sounded like a Qunari for a second there."

"But desires are neither autonomous nor permanent." Margo can't help herself. She smiles, probably a bit slyly. "Let's take an example. You might want… a frilly cake." Solas's eyes widen at this suggestion. "The only reason you would want it is that you have a preexisting idea of it. Maybe you've tried one before and remember enjoying it. Or maybe you want it because someone reminded you of it just now. But by tomorrow, something might change, and you will no longer want any frilly cakes. Or you will realize that your memory of them was faulty, and that frilly cakes are, in fact, not to your liking at all. Or that they tend to be accompanied by tea, and it's not worth the trouble. And if the one doing the wanting — and hence the choosing — is unreliable over time, then how is desire a good indicator for any kind of individuality or autonomy?"

"I assure you that my desires are not so inconsistent or variable as that. Lethallan."

Margo narrows her eyes at the strange way in which he tacked on the endearment — somewhere between an emphasis and an afterthought.

"And I do believe my memory remains adequate. For instance, I still recall our discussion of 'sophistry.' Though I do enjoy the reminder." He delivers all that in a mellow tone, but with a rather pointed look.

"To be clear, we're still talking about frilly cakes, yeah?" Bull interjects.

"S'over, you two. She owned both of ya." Sera grins. "There's another one with a clever tongue! Right, elfy?" Sera turns to Solas with a sarcastic smirk. It's met with profound peevishness. "Pffft, don't pout — clever tongue's a good thing."

Solas colors slightly.

Margo feels the heat in her own cheeks, and decides that the safest place to look is the campfire. Right. Oxidation — fascinating process, that.

"Sera, you are, as usual, taking the conversation in a distinctly questionable direction…"

"How would ya know where I'm takin' it? Maybe cuz you went there first! Ha!" Sera bursts out laughing.

Margo decides that this is her cue to fade out. She bids them goodnight, climbs into her bedroll, and drifts off to the sounds of another debate: this one between Bull and Dorian, about the relative merits of different Tevinter adult entertainment establishments.

"Minstrels, heh? Where d'ye say ye come from?"

The Redcliffe guard eyes them with unconcealed skepticism. Margo gives her a friendly grin, but it doesn't seem to assuage the woman's doubts one bit.

They do make quite the quartet. Margo readjusts the marigold behind her ear, which she added to her disguise at Sera's insistence. "Makes you look less… sharp and pointy." The poor flower is probably wilting from all the standing around in the heat. Next to her, Bull, in something that can only be described as sirwal pants so red and so wide you could use them for dead reckoning, and tucked into a pair of fussy leather boots with turquoise beading and upturned toes, crosses his arms over his massive chest. It is strange to see him without a sword, and he is clearly unsure of what to do with his hands. Sera's network is meant to smuggle their armor and weaponry under the cover of night, but until then, the task is to look like they're there to entertain.

They certainly look entertaining. Every time Bull turns his head, there is a melodic tinkle from the two silver bells hanging from the tips of his horns.

Solas is not faring much better. He looks like he escaped from a period piece on Robin Hood — the kind that's so low budget that the costumes were donated by the local charitable organization from whatever remained of last year's Halloween discards. The lime green hat with the long bird feather is an especially inspired touch — though the color does nothing for his complexion. Margo tries her damn best not to look at him, because every time she does, she is overwhelmed by the desire to sing " We're men, we're men in tights! " "I think this is actually an improvement from the usual, Solas," Dorian commented on seeing him. "It has the merit of having identifiable colors." To be fair to Solas, the elf has taken it all in stride with remarkable self-confidence. Also, it turns out that he can juggle surprisingly well — although Margo is fairly certain that he cheats.

Of the four of them, Dorian is by far the most at ease with the charade. His outfit is not a particularly radical departure from his usual clothes — although he added a cape — but what makes the costume is the large lute strapped to his back instead of his usual staff. A tad more kohl, a dab more hair pomade, and he looks like the type of 18th century hooligan who performs scathing political songs to rouse the peasantry and terrorizes the burghers with his indiscriminate seduction of their significant others.

Margo's outfit would make any Renaissance fair enthusiast proud. At least it's not a dress. The bodice and the loose linen shirt beneath leave rather little to the imagination. They're over leather leggings — thank you Unspecified Deity and Josephine's more merciful streak — even if they are, in Margo's humble opinion, of the overly form-fitting persuasion. What saves her from looking indecent — and parachutes her closer to the romanticism of the starving artist — is the fact that she does seem somewhat undernourished. "You have lovely collarbones, if you do not mind me saying. We should show them off!" Josephine had entirely too much fun outfitting them all, fussing over their costumes like they were getting ready for a masquerade ball and not sneaking into a potentially hostile fortified townlet. What Margo hadn't bargained for is the rather liberal neckline.

"Chin up, Blondie," Bull had rumbled, with an appreciative chuckle. "If they're staring at your tits, they're not paying attention to your singing." Timeless wisdom, right there.

Margo readjusts the vihuela on her back.

"Most recently, from Val Chevin, my dear lady," Dorian's voice takes on the sing-song quality of a born bullshitter, "but before that, from all four corners of Thedas, and dare I say, beyond."

The guard blinks. "What'ye sayin', boy? There ain't nothin' beyond Thedas, there ain't."

"Hey," Bull's voice is deep and a little velvety. "How's the atmosphere in the village? People gettin' bored yet?"

The woman shrugs. "Bored? There's no time to get bored." She sighs. "Bored's all well and good when ye don't have half of feckin' Tevinter strollin' around like they own the place."

"Yeah, that's what I'm sayin'. Tensions high? People need to let off some steam? I'm telling you, what you need is some good quality entertainment. And we are... Good. Quality. Entertainment."

They go around like that for a couple more times, but what seals the deal in the end is Margo noticing a heat rash along the guardswoman's neck, where the skin chafes from the perspiration and the friction from her armor's collar. Margo fishes out a salve from her pack — the same diaper cream formula she used to make Bull's eye-patch poultice — and presses it into the woman's hand.

"For your neck," she says. "Works like a charm."

"Ye tryin' to bribe me, lass?"

"Bribe you?" Margo tries to adopt a look of wide-eyed innocence. "I'd never try that. Oh, and don't put the potato starch on it. It makes it worse in the long run."

The guardswoman shrugs, opens the jar, sniffs it, and slathers the poultice on her skin. The relief on her face tells Margo that they're in. "Don't ye go tellin' anyone it was me who let ye through, ye hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Bull confirms. And then, they're on the ferry, which is really a glorified raft made of mismatched logs tied together with some alarmingly fraying rope. A fisherman type, who is missing a few teeth, but makes up for it with the most impressive pair of whiskers Margo has seen on someone who isn't a lynx, pushes them towards the Redcliffe docks with an expression of cosmic ennui. He barely even glances at them — never mind their ridiculous outfits. Another day, another copper.

Margo, who is wedged between Solas and Dorian on one side of the raft, to counterbalance the Qunari on the other, tilts her chin in the direction of their self-appointed Charon, and mumbles "tough crowd" under her breath. Dorian's jaw twitches, and Margo decides he is probably biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh.

Bull keeps peering into the water with a look of intense — if alarmed — concentration. "I could swear I saw another one…" he mumbles.

"Fish?" Dorrian ventures.

"Nah, not fish. Fish wouldn't be a problem… Too many legs..."

A movement on her other side catches her attention. Solas, who has tipped the absurd green hat forward at a rakish angle, flutters his fingers in the direction of her ear.

"If I may...?"

Before Margo can figure out what he wants, he reaches and plucks the long-suffering flower from her hair — somehow managing to brush the back of his hand against her bare shoulder and to sweep his fingers over the curve of her ear in one fell swoop. Her skin tingles in the wake of his touch. Margo has the ungenerous suspicion that he added some magical special effect — probably in retaliation for the previous night's "sophistry." Bastard. She narrows her eyes at the elf and is met with an innocent look. And then he passes his hand over the flower, and it revives a bit, looking mildly less worn out by its new decorative status. He tucks it back behind her ear.

"There. Much improved."

Margo cocks an eyebrow. "Did you somehow stabilize it? Or will it still keep wilting?"

He almost doesn't smile. "I do not perform miracles, lethallan. It will certainly keep wilting."

Dorian, on the other side of her, is overcome by a coughing fit that sounds as fake as his lute. "You could freeze it solid, and dampen the chill effect with a ward, Solas…"

"I could," the elf agrees easily.

The undercurrent of flirtation is fairly obvious, but something about it makes Margo cross. Perhaps it's the fact that he seems more comfortable with the underdeterminacy of it all: as long as nothing is acknowledged, it's all fair game, apparently. Or perhaps it is the fact that they are wearing masks — or, to be more precise, disguises. Everything becomes a little bit more facile once spared the burden of being oneself — whatever that might mean in all of their cases. She turns to face the elf. His eyes fix on hers, and he holds her gaze.

"Nothing is real, everything is permitted, hmm?" Margo's tone is light, but she stares back, fed up with being furtive about the whole thing.

A trace of a flinch. But then Solas regroups, and there is a wry cheekiness to his expression. And perhaps the edge of a challenge.

Bull gives Margo a brief glance before returning to scrutinizing the waters. "Nice one, Blondie. Now you sound like a proper bard."

"We're here," their taciturn Charon announces suddenly, and a few seconds later, the raft rams into a fishing dock.

This chapter was brought to you by Immanuel Kant, Adam Smith, and the wonders of diaper rash cream.