"Solas."

The word—the name—did not tangle her tongue as he thought it would. She had been saying it for some time, had been reading it late at night since first the Qunari breathed it in her ear. The name was limned in her suffering, carrying upon it the weight of all she had endured to reach him, and for a moment, it seemed as if he ignored her.

"Fen'Harel." She said instead, her tone more forceful, and he did turn to look at her over his shoulder, taking her in. Her torn clothing, ruined armor, and rapidly deteriorating arm, veins of green creeping along her skin, making it bleed. She glared at him through one eye, the other swollen shut, her hair disheveled.

Solas—now Fen'Harel—turned to face the Inquisitor, regarding her with a quiet gravity, the way one might regard a child that had done something most unexpected.

"So," he said, his voice inflectionless, "you know."

Hadiza struggled to stand upright and he made no move to help her as he would have in the past. Instead, he watched her sway on her feet, struggling to find footing that grounded her. When she was still, she regarded him through her undamaged eye, meeting his cool and detached gaze with one of curiosity.

"I admit…" She said, "I did not want to believe it at first, but after what I have seen, I leave nothing to chance." She spit on the ground at her side, a mixture of phlegm and blood, and then winced as the Anchor bit into her, spreading beyond her elbow. Solas narrowed his eyes.

"You're almost out of time, Inquisitor," he said, "I suspect you have questions."

Hadiza laughed, a dry and brittle sound.

"Maker do I ever," she said with a mirthless chuckle, wincing again, "I have so many questions for you. But we'll start with the most important one: what the hell is going on here?"

Solas said nothing, but when she winced, the mark flaring in her hand, engulfing her arm in verdant tendrils of raw Fade, his eyes flashed once, and the Anchor fell silent. Hadiza's tension was visible in the way it unspooled, loosening her muscles as she sagged in a sigh of relief. Solas came to stand over her.

He began to answer her question, and with each revelation, Hadiza's expression grew more and more alarmed. When he revealed his plans for the Conclave, she felt her stomach bottom out, her heart dropping to her feet as the realization of what was happening dawned on her.

"Why would…" She whispered, disbelieving, "Why would you do such a thing? What purpose could it possibly serve?"

Solas did not deign to answer her, and Hadiza saw, from her vantage point, that his gaze seemed far away, as if he were looking toward a future that was not one they would ever share. He never once looked down at her. She recalled his words from before, of how he sneered and scoffed at Corypheus' claim to godhood, even as he himself schemed to pull the self-same trick. Hadiza felt the pain electrify her arm again, nerves on fire, and only then did Solas turn his gaze to her.

"We are out of time." He said, reaching for her arm, "The Qunari are defeated, and will likely turn their attentions once more to Tevinter. That should buy you a few years of relative peace."

Hadiza swore at him; he cast her a withering glare, but said nothing. When Corypheus had attempted to remove the Anchor, it had been a struggle, both for himself, and for Hadiza, who had felt as if he were attempting to tear her bones out through her hand.

With Solas, it was quick. Painful, but swift, and he dropped her arm, bloody and glowing green, hanging limply by her side.

"Your compassion was always more than what I expected, Inquisitor Trevelyan," Solas said, his eyes glowing briefly as the power he'd reclaimed settled within him once more, "and I hope you maintain it in the years to come. It is for that that I must apologize."

Hadiza felt the pain bloom in her arm again, and looked down. Truly, the sight of it was more horrifying than the accompanying pain, and as Solas watched for a moment, Hadiza clutched her arm, as bits of her skin began to slough off, glowing green, and then disintegrating. She stared in horror at the exposed bone, and then watched it dissolve, as Solas walked away, through the eluvian, Hadiza's screams of agony piercing the ancient tranquility of the Crossroads.

The mirror didn't start working until later, and Samson barreled through it, heedless of the stone corpses of the Qunari, heedless of whether or not it was a trap, wanting only to know that Hadiza was alive. Dorian, Aja, and Vivienne were close behind, calling out to him. Samson's lungs burned, every muscle in his body burned in a way it hadn't before, but he was a year free of the lyrium—all lyrium—and he knew he'd die a man unchained.

But he would die before her.

"Hadiza!" Samson climbed the steps leading to the largest eluvian he'd seen in this insane misadventure, and found her curled in front of it, blood smeared along its placid surface. Samson ran to her, and saw her clothes, soaked in blood.

"Maker!" He whispered, "Pavus!" He gingerly rolled Hadiza over, feeling his heart clench at the gory sight. Her sleeve was torn, rent to bloodstained tatters likely by her own hand, and her arm…

"Ah, Maker's Breath…" Samson groaned, mourning her loss.

"Samson where are—kaffas…!" Dorian was brought up short and for a rare moment in his life, his tongue was as well. He stared in abject horror before his sense returned, and he was kneeling alongside Samson, trying to revive Hadiza.

"She lives," Dorian said seriously, "but barely. Maker, Hadiza, how do you keep getting yourself into trouble like this?" His hands passed over the severe wound, attempting to repair the flesh but even magic could not fix this.

"We need to get her back to the palace," Vivienne said, and her voice, usually cool and composed, held a tremor of fear in it. Hadiza was not moving, and her blood soaked the hungry earth around them, smeared the eluvian mirror in front of them, and yet she lay still, her breath shallow.

Aja was hysterical, demanding they find Solas so that she might extract his head as payment, or the Qunari—whomever had mutilated her sister thus. It was Vivienne who calmed her, reasoned with the Reaver, already half-mad from the battle earlier, pupils and iris alike ringed with red. It was only when Vivienne was sure Aja was calm that she helped Dorian and Samson in moving Hadiza, heading back toward the eluvians to return to the Winter Palace.

It was likely the only time any of them save Vivienne had been so glad to go to Orlais.

She remembered only snatches of conversations. Words lost in shadow, the angry shouting at one point as surgeons peered down at her. She remembered coming alive with pain as her wound was cleansed and cauterized, the smell of her own sizzling flesh making her gag. Hadiza remembered precious little in those hectic hours—days?—when her life ebbed and flowed along the live wire of her agony. She cried out during the procedure, and when she was forced to drink a tincture of elfroot and poppy essence, she moaned and slurred, her bod heavy and sluggish.

And she slept. Maker, she slept like the dead, aware of nothing beyond her consciousness, the world becoming a smatter of watercolor in the rain as she slept away the pain, begging for the poppy essence when it returned, formidable and vengeful.

Throughout, she dreamt of her own death, wishing it, hoping the next time the tincture took her under would be the last. Surely here, now, in her death-like sleep, there could only ever be peace?

Even then, she dreamed of outlandish things. Seven eyes smirked at her from the shadows, the silhouette of horns against the sickly green of an alien sky, and Solas' words spoken from a demon's tongueless mouth. Everything flowed, disjointed and without theme or reason, making her sleep as fitful as ever.

And then one day, she simply woke, the familiar anguish in her left arm returning in force. She sat up, but fell backward onto the pillow, winded as she struggled to right herself. She went to use both hands as leverage and found herself off balance.

And then she looked down, and remembered.

Hadiza opened her mouth but no sound emerged. She hadn't dreamt it, and it had not been a side-effect of the poppy, or some sort of ancient elven magic. Her left arm was bandaged, and ended just below the elbow. The bandages were russet with blood, which stained the towels that had been placed atop the sheets to minimize the mess her bleeding made. Hadiza moved her left arm, and watched the stump respond.

"Hadiza." Samson's voice was hoarse at her bedside, and she turned her head slowly to look at him. He looked as weary as he did when she brought him in from the Arbor Wilds. The bruises under his eyes had returned, and they were bloodshot from lack of sleep. He wore only his tunic, breeches, and boots, and his hands were clasped as if in prayer.

"Samson." Hadiza responded in a voice she did not recognize. She had never heard the notes of true weariness in her own voice.

"Thank the Maker you're awake." He said to her and she went to him as he came to her, gathering her in his arms as if she were precious and fragile, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, "Don't ever scare me like that again. Maker! I thought…"

Hadiza smiled weakly. "No. I know." She told him and when she reached up to cup his face in her hands, as she had always done, she was reminded that that too was a luxury she could not longer afford.

Samson saw her surprise and confusion, her uncertainty, and took her right hand and lifted it to his lips to kiss the knuckles, again and again.

"You're going to be fine." He assured her, "I promise."

Hadiza didn't truly have the strength to nod. She felt weak, and knew her diet had likely consisted of little more than broth and water to keep up her strength.

The days of recovery were hell, and Hadiza avoided mirrors even then, trying to help her advisors and companions piece together what had happened.

And then she got angry all over again when she realized what needed to be done.

The day she marched into the Exalted Council, they were discussing the terms for the Inquisition's disbandment, and Hadiza let her spite fuel her, as she stood before them, holding up the treatise written by the previous Divine for all to see.

"You all know what this is?" She asked, and waited for no answer because she knew this group of people would never have answers.

"That's the only thing I—and the Inquisition—are required to answer to," Hadiza said, putting on her mask for the last time, "and we made you all a promise to fix the mess and find out who is responsible. You have heard the stories. I fought bandits, dragons, and countless demons to keep your lands safe. While you cowered and allowed yourselves to be torn apart by inane civil war," she glared at the Orlesians in the room, "I took in your refugees and gave them a purpose and work to do, when you burned them out of their homes and destroyed their livelihoods for petty squabbles."

She turned her awful gaze on Bann Teagan, "And when you let a Tevinter magister take control of your lands, what did you do to stop it? The same thing you did when the Hero of Ferelden had to come to your aid these thirteen years past, I imagine." She tossed the book on the floor before them all, uncaring, and completely furious.

"I have shed blood, sweat, and tears to keep Thedas safe. And I have expended coin and resources in the effort it took to dislodge your collective heads from your asses to defeat Corypheus. And now, I have sacrificed a literal piece of myself to save you from the Qunari, and you have the unmitigated gall to claim I dragged you into a war of your own making. Not today, nor any other day, will I stand for it."

Hadiza's anger was tight and controlled. "I say now it is your turn to sacrifice—to feel the pain of shedding parts of yourself for the greater good, to let your blood nurture the ground in an effort to protect all you hold dear. You will not take all that I've worked for from me, nor will you ever diminish my sacrifice or the sacrifice of countless others who no longer draw breath today that you might sit here and judge our words and deeds as if you have any right to do so. And so, effective immediately, the Inquisition is disbanded…by my own decree and my own hand." She heard the gasps and murmurs, and ignore them.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to go and save the world…again. You all can find someone else save you."

She left them there, and as she passed through the doors, she felt the last vestige of The Inquisitor fall away. Only Hadiza remained.

Alive. But in pieces.

Hercinia was quiet.

It had been a year since the Inquisition disbanded, and Maker, he could not have asked for a better city to settle in. And even then, he and Hadiza had agreed to build their home outside of the city, away from the bustle of it, closer to the sea, where they could hear the ocean in the distance, and the cry of the gulls along the shore. It took many months, and with the aid of Hadiza's spoils from the Inquisition, the aid of her sister who was not Lady Trevelyan in full, they were able to build a decent enough home. Small enough that it was manageable between the two of them, but large enough if they ever wanted company.

In the early days, there was plenty of company, and a steady correspondence from old friends. Aja and Josie sent mementos from Antiva, and Hadiza had never heard her sister so happy in life. Leliana opted to take Cassandra onto counsel to aid with the continued reforms in the Chantry. Hadiza and Vivienne kept up al lively correspondence, and although Vivienne said she would never be able to make it all the way out to the rustic charm of the Free Marches, that she and her 'disgraceful' husband were always welcome in her home in Val Royeaux.

Samson had a few choice words to reply to Vivienne but Hadiza batted him away, sending her love and greetings to her friend. The only person Hadiza could not seemingly contact was Ariadne, and even though no one knew where she'd vanished to, Hadiza occasionally received mysterious missives bearing cryptic words. She and Samson made a game of it, decoding the words to divine the message within.

Blackwall had gone to Weißhaupt, presumably to join the other Wardens. With no order in Ferelden or Orlais, anymore, it was the only place he could go. She received letters from him every few months, and then received nothing. A year later, she received a shield, his helmet, and a griffon feather.

She mourned him, and Samson helped her hang the shield up above the mantle, right next to his own. The helmet, Hadiza locked away in her mother's chest, and preserved the griffon feather in a small jar.

Iron Bull had taken his Chargers to fight Vints, and Hadiza heard from Dorian often that the mercenary band often fought near the border, where he would then meet with the Qunari, who had, over time, become his lover. That surprised Hadiza only slightly, and being he romantic that she was, she was cheered by the news.

She received word from Cullen—and his damned Mabari from the drool stains on the page—that his sanctuary had come along well, and many templars who found themselves lost and in need of aid, had come to recover. Hadiza shared the news with Samson, who had openly wept with pride for it. The two men had long since mended their friendship, and Samson and Hadiza took a trip to Ferelden to visit personally. She had never seen Samson so moved before, but she understood what it meant to him, and watched as Cullen and Samson embraced, an unspoken bond between them, with uncharted text Hadiza was not privy to. They tarried in Ferelden for two weeks, and Cullen rolled his eyes at his Mabari's fondness for Hadiza, who enjoyed long walks through the scenic grounds, the large dog tagging at her heels.

"I thought they were only loyal to their masters," Samson remarked and Cullen rolled his eyes.

"They are. But ever since she brought him dog treats in Halamshiral, he's taken to thinking she's in charge when she's around."

Samson laughed. "Yes. Well. That's Hadiza, for you."

For all that, life was good most days. Hadiza learned to look in the mirror, taking several minutes a day to stare at her reflection, blinking as she examined her body, scarred, tattooed, and short one arm. Her hand went to the scar tissue of the stump on her left arm, and when she pressed she felt the pain, wincing. She thought, for a moment, she could feel the flex and grip of the fingers of her left hand, and then the image of her watching her arm dissolve before her eyes flashed into the present and she turned away from her reflection.

To his credit, Samson aided her, helping to tie off her left sleeve when she dressed, and making an almost reverent ritual of dressing her, trying to get her to smile by tickling the backs of her knees, making jokes about how she made no claims to godhood, and yet…

Hadiza suffered his bad jokes, and laughed when he tickled her.

For a while, she did not find the heart to make love to him. With the scars of her own making, she could tolerate, and Samson thought no less of her for it, understanding the source of her pain. With this newest injury, this one inflicted by someone else, Hadiza could not reconcile her reflection with what she had always seen in her mind's eye.

And Samson was patient with her, never once speaking about it when she did not bring it up herself.

Life continued apace, and over time, she learned to walk with balance, smiling as she got used to the lack of counterweight her left arm provided.

"You never realize how your body fits together until a piece of it goes missing." She said to Samson one day, as he helped her with her daily exercises to keep the strength up. Samson smiled.

For her Name Day, Samson went into the city to bring a physician. Having seen injuries like hers before, the older man suggested a mirror box. Hadiza, curious, wondered what that was. She had never dealt with amputation in the Circle, and it was an injury beyond her abilities when she'd helped in the Inquisition. But when the physician brought her a mirror box, and explained how it worked, she wept.

It was, perhaps, one of the greatest gifts she ever received.

And so Hadiza used the mirror box to come to terms with her reflection, and over the months, she worked easier. Samson would rub the soothing aloe on the skin of her arm to help the scar tissue heal faster, and then massage the almond oil into it that it might heal cleanly.

And winter came, and Hadiza received intelligence from Dorian that there may have been a way to stop Solas.

The war with the Qunari had weakened Tevinter considerably, as most of their resources were expended defending against them, and in the wake of this weakness, slaves in Tevinter had begun to run away. The chains that bound them were struck, and with Tevinter's mages turned toward the war, it was hard to retrieve them. To that, Hadiza could not feel any measure of sympathy. She had told Dorian time and again that slavery was an abhorrent and antiquated practice.

Samson was quiet during this correspondence with the communication crystal, but when she finished, he drew her into their bedroom to speak.

"I have a contact in Tevinter that may be able to help." He told her and Hadiza brightened.

"Really? Who?" She pressed, "And why are you just now telling me this?"

Samson frowned. "I wasn't sure they were still around."

Hadiza snorted. "Get to the point."

Samson hesitated. "I can't give you too much information because I don't want their operation compromised. I met them in Kirkwall, before I left with Corypheus. Maker…"

And so he told her, told her everything he could remember, gave her a name, a description, even drafted a letter in his own hand to send off.

"If they get this, they'll know it's me. Otherwise they'll go to ground and your shot will be lost." Hadiza watched him intently, and he reached for his kerchief, and coughed into it.

It came away bloody.

Hadiza went to the kitchen to begin preparing the draught, but Samson stopped her.

"No, princess," he told her, "can't drink that shit anymore. I've been off the lyrium too long. Won't do much good anyway. Just…let me get this letter sent out."

And so Hadiza watched, apprehensive, the healer in her screaming to do something as Samson drafted a letter. He did not seal it with anything but plain wax, and wrapped it in oilskin. The ravens they'd taken with them from the Inquisition were trained, and Samson sent the letter with confidence that the raven would reach its destination.

Samson's cough persisted throughout the night, and Hadiza finally talked him into drinking the tincture, if for nothing else then to sooth the pain. He drank it, and she watched him as he slept, monitoring his breathing.

Thus, did their days persist, good and bad, dull and exciting.

The next morning, Samson went to the Chantry, and Hadiza smiled when he returned, seeing a sense of peace suffused in his face she'd not seen before. He rubbed his aching knees, and when he saw her, he swept her up in his arms and kissed her.

Somehow, the light of the Chant had found its way into his heart again, and though Hadiza was no longer a devout Andrastian, embracing only the truth and compassion shaped by her own life, she was overjoyed for him. He had attended the Chantry sparingly over the years since they married, but she had never seen him so balanced.

It gave her joy.

And then that night, for the first time since before the Exalted Council, they made love. It was awkward at first, and Hadiza forgot herself when she could try to cling to him and finding her grip incomplete, but Samson helped her, guided her, kissed away her tears. She relaxed, and let him take them. It was likely the most tender thing between them, and not a word was spoken as they lay in languorous silence, gazing up at the skylight ceiling.

Their thoughts touched, and so they did not speak, and instead, intertwined their fingers, ruminating on all that came before. Samson felt, for the first time, that he deserved this. He had done penance, and though he carried the blood of innocents on his soul, he had found salvation when he took her hand and let her guide him back to the light.

He squeezed her hand, making her laugh.

"I think this is what it feels like," Samson told her, "to come home."

Hadiza smiled, eyes closing.

"Mm." She murmured, "Welcome home, love."