.23.

-The hardest choices-

.x.

Awake, blinking, Boone knew she had died. It was the same as knowing she had been born, as knowing she now lived. Above her was a roof made of stone and she studied it, beset with a restfulness she did not understand. For a time that's all she did, lying comfortable and warm in an unknown bed in an unknown room. The tranquility did not last. She had known it would not. Memories clamored for her attention and she indulged them even though she knew it would hurt. And it did—recollections washed over her of an old woman who had loved her as a child, of a bearded, black-haired man who had been her dearest friend. Some reminisces proved painful in different ways. The Anchor. Solas. Geldauran. That last recollection brought to mind others; her hands lifted to her face, fingers pressing lightly against her cheeks.

"They're gone."

"Dorian," she said, quietly unsurprised. Her voice was hoarse, reluctant to leave her throat. Her head rolled to the side and there he was, seated in a chair at her bedside, regarding her with a solemness that saddened her. She reached for him with a hand made of white wood and magic and he took it, clasping it firmly against his thigh. For a moment they merely regarded each other, their dark eyes unguarded, earnest, and eventually a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. She could not help but respond in kind.

"How do you feel?" he asked her.

"Alive," she replied after a moment, softly and unexpectedly flippant. His smile widened and he squeezed her hand. She elaborated, "I feel… rested."

"Well?"

"Yes. Perhaps better than well." She propped herself up on her elbows and eyed the length of her blanketed body. From what she could feel of herself, she was perfectly fine. She rested her head on the pillow again, the fingers of her free hand drifting upward to her face once again. "You said the marks are gone?" she queried without looking at him.

"Yes."

"Solas?"

"No."

There was a peculiar note in his voice. She turned her head again to see that his smile had faded. It worried her. She asked, "Who removed them?"

He did not look at her as he replied, his eyes having discovered something interesting on the floor at his feet. "It took the combined efforts of several of the Elvhenan's mages. It is apparently very old magic, not easily taught. They performed the task admirably. You look as you ever did," he leaned forward, touching her gently on the head, "save for lack of hair, but that will be remedied with time."

They observed each other in a comfortable silence. It was easy for her to think only on the fact that Dorian was here, holding her hand, and that she was alive to enjoy it. She could not keep the grimmer concerns at bay indefinitely, and so after a time she asked, "Where is he?"

His gaze darted away from her immediately, an uncharacteristically evasive reflex. "He is recuperating."

Worry sharpened her voice. "Recuperating?"

His fingers tightened around hers in reassurance. "He is well. Doing what he did…" he paused and sighed. "Returning you depleted him. He has been sleeping nearly as much as you."

She was sitting up now, tugging her hand back from his. His consolation rang hollow, his behavior doing nothing to dim her anxiousness. "Dorian," she said with emphasis.

"I swear to you, Evelyn, he is all right."

"But?" she prompted.

He shooks his head. "It is not for me to speak of." At her openly frustrated expression he rose from his chair to instead perch on the edge of the bed. He covered her hand with his, mutely entreating her to understand. Whatever it was he would not say, she knew, was sufficiently grave enough to bother him a great deal. Thinking of Solas and all that might be awry gave rise to the all too terribly familiar anxieties and sorrows that not even death could separate her from. Dorian sat quietly as she ruminated, knowing what she struggled with and entirely willing to provide silent and patient comfort.

She spoke again after a long while, uttering a reluctant question, sorrow dragging at every word. "Thom and Movda?"

"Solas kept his word. They've been buried on the coast near the farm, next to each other."

A memory returned to Boone, vivid and poignant, of the final time she had seen them, seated next to each other before the fire, both asleep with Movda's head resting on Thom's shoulder and Thom's soft snoring the only sound. She'd lost family before—her family of birth and the makeshift family the Inquisition had become, both by choice—but this was a loss incomparable to any other she'd known. The reasons they'd died, the way they'd died—Boone turned to Dorian and rested her head on his shoulder. He provided the comfort he'd wordlessly offered earlier, putting his arms around her and letting her quietly weep until she trailed off into soft, hiccuping sighs.

"I'm sorry," he told her, wiping tears off her cheeks as she straightened.

"How long?" she asked him. "How long has it been since…?"

"Nine days." She looked at him, perplexed, and he gave her a shrug. "We were not certain, after Solas… you were still alive, but we had know way of knowing if you would awaken. And there was—" he broke off, looking suddenly conflicted.

"What?"

"You dreamed. Violently. Thrashing, screaming, fighting—at times you had to be restrained. I had worried that whatever he had done had damaged you somehow, but perhaps it was a side effect of the process. Do you remember anything?"

She shook her head.

"Good. They did not seem like the types of dreams one would want to remember."

She was silent a moment, gathering thoughts that had strayed in the absence of consciousness. When she spoke next it was one word, blunt and frayed. "Geldauran?"

"Dead. The Mien'Harel as well, save those that were taken prisoner and brought here for trial."

Thinking of Geldauran evoked a chill that settled over her shoulders. She shrugged it away angrily—he had dominated the final days of her last life. He would not feature in her new one. She could feel her mind start to struggle beneath the enormity of what she had just undergone. She rubbed at her temples, saying abruptly, "I'm tired."

"Of course. Of course you are." Dorian got to his feet. "Rest now. I'm in the room next room if you need anything." A concerned frown marred his brow as he studied her. "I can remain, if you wish. Quietly."

"No, I…" she trailed off because she didn't know how to say what she wanted to say.

He was able to comprehend it anyway. He nodded, touched his fingertips to her cheek. "I'll see you when you wake," he said, and left.

Once the door closed behind him Boone laid back down, turning onto her side and knotting her hands in the blankets. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes once again, spilling over to fall down the bridge of her nose onto the pillow beneath. Geldauran had killed her. She'd died. Solas had resurrected her. She'd wanted that final release after Thom and Movda had been slain, had welcomed it right up until she hadn't. She'd wanted to live in those final moments, seeing Solas and Dorian before her. She'd wanted to live and now here she was. Alive. Breathing. Still broken, though, and she buried her face in the pillow as sobs she could no longer suppress broke free.

Hours later, after awakening again, she laid on her back and examined her thoughts. She was no stranger to feeling hollow and she still felt it now, but—something had changed. Something was indescribably different. Without the shroud of Geldauran's final promise looming over her head she was able to gain clarity long lost to her. She'd been granted another life. She would take it. She would live it on her terms.

She was, she discovered, house in a room inside Enansal Vir. Days passed. Dorian was present for all of them. Cassandra had been there, he explained, but her departure had been forced due to some manner of discord within the Seeker ranks. She'd sworn she would return to see Boone, though, and Boone was warmed by that promise. On the fourth day Boone spoke of leaving Era'Adahlen, hesitant because she was still unsure of so many things. A glimpse of Dorian's expression gave her pause and she questioned him on it.

"You're free to go," he told her. "Anywhere you like, at any time."

"But Solas—"

"—has set you free, Evelyn. He decreed it—you are free to leave or enter this city as you wish."

She was unsure how she felt about this. Dorian read her thoughts. "He is doing what he can to rectify all he has done wrong."

But is it too late? she wondered, but did not do so aloud. She suspected Dorian often wondered the same.

"I hear Tevinter is nice this time of year," he told her in a playful tone as he reclined in his chair and steepled his fingers together across his chest. "Even more so if you have a good guide."

She smiled. "Are you offering?"

"Perhaps. If the coin is good enough."

She laughed and he grinned in response. "I think I will go to Tevinter," she said, "but there is another place I wish to go first."

"Oh?"

"Kirkwall."

"Ugh."

"I own a house and a title there," she reminded him.

"I can get you both in Tevinter. Perhaps. It may require some impressive political maneuvering, though."

"Don't trouble yourself."

"No trouble to rile a few fellow Magisters. If anything it's more of a hobby."

"Dorian," she laughingly warned, and steered the conversation in another course.

.x.

On the eighth day Irithala came to visit, overjoying Boone. The two hugged for long minutes. Tears were shed. The girl had heard about everything—as had the entirety of the city, it seemed—and was in awe to see Boone walking and talking. They spoke at length about all that had happened in the city since Boone had been gone. When Boone was stable enough to begin taking long daily walks, it was Irithala who accompanied her, often with Dorian as well. Dorian seemed fond enough of the girl, and the trio was able to occupy their time together engaged in lighthearted conversations.

She dreaded the nights. Alone with her thoughts she mourned and fretted, surrendered to anger and fear. She was furious at Solas and yet she missed him. She loved him. Parts of her needed him. But how to overcome all that had transpired? How did she forgive him? How could she be without him? The solution to all of these lay in seeing him, in speaking with him, and it took her time to work up the courage for that task. On the eleventh day she asked Irithala to prepare her for a visit to Solas and the girl immediately became solemn, intuiting the gravity of the situation. She'd brought some of Boone's clothing over from her original quarters and Boone dressed sensibly in shirt, vest, pants, and boots. It took her long minutes to calm herself enough to walk to the door, open it, and nod at Irithala. Together they walked throughout the keep, and with each step Boone felt her apprehension mounting until she could nearly taste it. Finally they'd arrived at Solas' door and Boone eyed it, fighting the compulsion to back away and retreat.

Irithala's hand on her shoulder was fortifying. She nodded gratefully. "Thank you for coming with me this far."

"Of course, Hahren'asha," And with an encouraging smile, the girl turned and quickly walked back the way they'd came.

As Irithala left, Boone hesitated before the open door, placing one hand upon the frame to brace herself against the uncertainty she felt. It felt a lifetime since she'd seen Solas. Their last parting had been the morning after becoming lovers, a morning she'd spent engulfed in transitioning feelings of adoration, wonder, and guilt. She had seen him twice in dreams after that, dreams in which grief and fear prevailed. And now he was just beyond this threshold, the god that had returned her to life, the ruler she'd hidden from, the man she craved.

It was long moments later when she was able to summon the courage to move. The room beyond was dark but for a faint glow that spoke of lamplight, and with a deep breath she crossed into it. All she'd seen of Solas' chambers previously had been the study and the alcove that housed the eluvians, and so she ventured into his room with equal parts curiosity and nervousness. She stopped just on the other side of the door. Solas was abed as Dorian had indicated he so often was of late, propped up by pillows in a semi-sitting position, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with deep and even breathing. The lantern on the bedside table threw off just enough light to allow her to view him clearly, and the simple sight of him filled her with so many emotions, all of them complicated. She loved him as much as she was frustrated by him, as much as she was angered by him, as much as she sometimes feared his ambitions. She was seized by the urge to turn and walk right out of the room, but another urge was far more powerful, and so it was she drew closer to his bed with a quiet, cautious tread.

Even in repose she could clearly see the signs of strain upon his countenance. He looked pale, the skin beneath his eyes bruised, his mouth pinched even as he rested. Of all the things she felt upon seeing him, compassion and concern struck her the hardest. Perhaps they were misplaced, viewing the man who had sometimes knowingly, sometimes mistakenly dictated the course most of her life had taken. Perhaps she should feel nothing but hatred and apathy—perhaps, were she a different woman who had lived a different life. As it was…

At the side of his bed she paused again, not wanting to wake him because to do so would bring about a conversation she was not certain she had the emotional fortitude to withstand. The time for retreat had long since passed, however, and she was here now, reborn and renewed. She turned, easing down onto the side of the bed, and watched as that small disturbance roused Solas from his sleep. His head lolled from one side to the other as he shifted slowly, as his eyes blinked everything into focus. He stilled upon seeing Boone, the sound that slipped from his mouth a quiet, indecipherable once. The tension marring his face shifted, settling into lines of quiet unease and halting hope.

She spoke first. "Thank you."

He inhaled, a trifle shakily. When he spoke his voice was husky. "I was unsure if…"

She filled the silence. "You thought I might be angry."

"Are you?"

She shook her head slowly. "No."

He seemed unconvinced, so unlike himself that she was reached for him almost unthinking. Her fingers brushed a soothing path across his brow. He captured her hand in his own, fingers gently twining, pressing it to his chest. She felt the warmth of him even through the fabric of his simple shirt.

"I was angry," she told him. The stillness of the large, dark room was so heavy it could almost be felt, prompting her to speak in hushed tones. "I was angry because… well, those are reasons we both know. But — I'm alive again. That is no small thing. And despite… despite everything—" and here her voice broke as her thoughts turned to Movda and Thom, "despite everything, I'm grateful for what you gave me."

He relaxed, leaning his head back against his pillow. His fingers flexed against hers, a minuscule intimacy that made her heart flutter regardless. He gazed at her wordlessly for a long while. She waited patiently until he was ready to speak. When he did, it was in a whisper. "I am… I am so—"

"I know," she interjected. There was no need for any more words of remorse or shame between them. That time had at long last passed. He opened his mouth to persist but she shook her head again, turning to face him fully. "I know. I felt it in the dream. I felt it when…" she didn't need to finish that sentence.

Silence once more. He averted his eyes, gazing at some point on the wall opposite. The air was thick with words neither of them had the courage to voice even now. She would speak them, though. She would say what she needed to say before her visit ended.

He said without looking at her, "You're going to Tevinter." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," she responded after a long moment. "But not right away. First I'll go to Kirkwall."

"Varric," he said, eyes darting to her face.

"Yes," she said again, and then elaborated with a tiny smile, "I am a comtesse there, after all."

The smile he gave her in return was fragile and it wavered after a few moments. He rallied, saying with a forced teasing tone, "The nobility there will not quite know what to make of you."

"No," she replied softly. "Very few people do. Not like you do."

Her words took him aback. She was flooded with an unfamiliar boldness—it felt as though their long established roles had reversed, he uncertain and torn, she resolute and focused. She pressed on. "What we have endured, Solas…"

"I wounded you."

"Yes."

"I am the reason—"

"Yes," she interrupted. "Yes. And a part of me has hated you for it."

His flinch was nearly imperceptible. "And now?"

"And now," she said, "I've known loss. I've mourned, will continue to mourn. But I'm here now and so are you. Very few are given a second life. I would greatly prefer to experience it this time with less sorrow and fewer regrets."

She stood suddenly, pulling her hand from his. He watched with a brittle expression which transformed immediately into astonishment as she pulled the blankets back and swiftly slipped between them. She felt his body stiffen as she nestled close to him and for a heartbeat she feared she'd gone too far, had been too bold. He stirred, lifting his arm and draping it over her shoulders, pulling her closer. Her head rested against his chest and she warmed to feel his lips press lingeringly against her brow.

"Can you forgive me?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, "and no. It's …. It's not a simple thing."

"I know," he whispered, "I know."

"And you understand how I feel… about you?" She blushed a little to say it aloud in this new place they found themselves in, two people remade entirely by circumstance, coltish in the wake of their emotions.

"You love me." His voice was low, equal parts hesitant and assured.

"I do."

"Even now."

"Even now," she affirmed.

He moved, turning onto his side, kissing her so suddenly she barely had time to prepare herself. His lips were warm, urgent and demanding and she capitulated to their demand, softening against him. His hand lifted as though to stroke through her hair but found only stubble—he reared back, breaking the kiss and staring at her so achingly that she felt her throat tighten.

"What he did to you—"

"—is ended. It was only hair."

"It was beautiful," he said, letting his fingers graze along the side of her head. "At least his vallaslin are gone."

"I thank you for it," was her earnest reply. And then: "But Dorian said it was not you that removed them?"

He pulled back, reflexively glancing away, the same kind of evasion Dorian had shown. It filled her with apprehension and she caught at his wrist before he could rise completely. He was sitting upright, his back to her, head bowed. She inched nearer, transferring her hand to his shoulder, squeezing in silent supplication to know what he was so reluctant to reveal.

It was a long time before he spoke. "Returning you required a cost."

He spoke of more than the exhaustion that dogged him for days, of that she was certain. "Solas…?"

"Are you cold?"

She blinked at the abrupt change in topic. He gently lifted her hand from his shoulder and rose to his feet, picking up the lantern from the night table and using it to illuminate his way across the large room. There was a fireplace there, large and exquisitely crafted from wood and stone. She studied the way he moved, noting the falter in his strides and how slowly he progressed, how he seemed winded after traversing such a short distance. He set the lantern upon the mantle, went about lighting the fire with the assembled kindling and a taper. Boone watched with a frown. He seemed unfamiliar with such a mundane task, almost uncomfortable—

"Your magic," she blurted in a strangled voice as realization struck. "It's been affected."

His shoulders rose and fell in a silent sigh. As he fanned the first fledgling flames, he said quietly, "It's gone."

She quickly slid out of the bed, approaching and circling around until she was before him. His eyes were fixed on the fire and he leaned heavily against the stone of the hearth. "Gone?" she queried haltingly. "Will it return? Will it come back in time?"

Solas' shake of the head was slow and final. She felt her stomach drop. Grasping at any kind of answer that wasn't the one he just gave her, she asked, "How can you be certain?"

He looked at her, bracing his arm against the header, leaning his head against his arm in turn. What she saw in his eyes was defeat, profound and crippling, and with it a wearied acceptance she was certain he had never known before. "There are some things one knows beyond any doubt," he told her, "and this is one of them."

"Solas," she breathed, hurting for him. Her palm found his cheek and she stepped nearer, sliding one arm around him. He held himself firm for a few seconds before his breath left him in another sigh and he relaxed into her embrace. As she held him her thoughts moved in a sluggish frenzy. Solas without his magic—it was akin to wind without air, an unfathomable, desolate thing. The ancient Elvhen's ties to magic had been more than mere affinity. It had been more to Solas than simple magecraft—it had been a part of his self, something that had ferried him through the eons, keeping him separate and apart from every other elvhen. It had kept him true to the man he'd been, to the world he'd come from, to the resolve he'd nurtured. To be bereft of it was like the sundering of soul from body. He was altered, he was lessened, and it was irreversible.

And he'd done it for her.

The words she wanted tangled in her throat and she fought to sort through them. "I wish… Solas, I'm—"

"No," he interrupted, one hand sliding around to cup the back of her neck, to pull her flush against him. "No. It was a sacrifice I willingly made. I'd make it again if I had to."

He couldn't mean it. It was beyond her comprehension. He'd lost what defined him, what made him. How could he…?

"Evelyn," he murmured, "You are back. That's all that matters to me."

A part of her believed him. A part of her wanted to dwell in pestilent doubt. She pushed the second part aside and focused instead on the feel of him, warm and solid and comforting, on the sound of his breathing and the scent of his skin. The fire had grown and she felt its warmth playing along her side. Eventually he drew back, taking her hand in his and leading her back to the bed. She preceded him, lifting the blankets and fitting beneath. Once they were settled he lay on his back and she was nestled in the crook of his arm. For a time they that's all they did, resting and deriving comfort from each other, each knowing it would too soon end. She dozed lightly, feeling more at ease than she had in a very long time, rousing when Solas spoke.

"When will you go?"

"Two days. Dorian has booked me passage on a boat in Highever."

"He's going with you?"

"Only to Highever."

"You shouldn't travel alone."

"I won't be alone on the boat."

"I can assign you a personal guard."

"No. Please."

He gave a reluctant hum of acknowledgment. "… all right."

More silence, but both of them were tense because there was still one question unasked. He presented it eventually. "Will you—" he halted, cleared his throat. "Will you return?"

Yes, was the answer that she kept caged behind her teeth, a word that she could not utter because its truth was right now indeterminate. She didn't know what loomed in her future, knew only that she couldn't spend the entirety of it here. Ten years spent in self-imposed exile, free to roam but never to actually exist as who she was—now she was free of that exile, free too of the gilded restraints Solas had so intricately confined her with. She could and would do as she wished. She kissed him as an alternative to responding, propping herself up on one elbow, fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt. She kissed him as a way to tell him what he already knew, what she'd already said, to try and dull the edge she knew her non-answer had carried. I cannot stay, she told him as his lips parted beneath hers. I cannot remain where memories lurk, fighting to drag me down. I need to learn to be me again. I need to change and grow.

He understood, his tongue sliding against hers, his hand drifting down her back. Lust swirled amid every other emotion she experienced but she couldn't surrender to it. Not yet. Not now. They both bore invisible wounds that only time and distance could heal. It was he that broke the kiss, his hands on her shoulders pushing her gently back. He had come to the same realization.

"It's late," he said between panting breaths.

"It is," she agreed with an easiness that belied her inward turmoil, reassuming her position close to his side. "And I feel like sleeping here. If you've no complaints…?"

She waited, frightened more than a little to hear what his response would be. "None," he said after a moment, pulling her closer.

What are we? She questioned wordlessly as they lay entwined, both awake, both afraid, both helpless in their different ways. What are we, Solas? Lovers once, but will we ever be again? And friends… I miss that part of us. I needed it. I need it now. I need you.

In the quiet, in the darkness, she continued to voice her wordless thoughts, hoping he'd hear them, hoping he'd understand.

.x.

The next two days she spent as much time in his company as she could. They sat before the fire in his study, conversing on serious topics that no longer had the ability to wound grievously, though sometimes a word here and there would land a glancing blow. They spent time reading, both engrossed in books from the keep's library. Solas tired easily and often and when he would return to his room to sleep she would follow, laying beside him, always touching him, determined to indulge in these moments while she could. At times she would look up to see him staring unseeing at something in front of him and she knew he was contemplating what he now was and reflecting on what he had been. His struggle was his own, one that she could not aid him in much like he could not aid in hers. They were both of them damaged, riven by all that had happened, incapable of mending each other. In time, she sensed, she could heal. Never fully, no—there was no remedy to achieve that manner of miracle. But could he ever recover from the sundering he'd undergone?

She did not go to him the night before her departure. To do so before that looming event would only hurt them both. Instead she spent part of the evening in her old quarters, sorting through the belongings she'd left behind the night of the fire. Irithala helped her to pack what she would need for her time away, which was largely clothing that Irithala herself had constructed. When it was done, before she made to return to the keep with her baggage in tow, she gave a fond farewell to the elvhen woman who had showed her such kindness during her first days in the city.

The morning she was to leave she was awake well before dawn, beset with an unfamiliar eagerness. A new part of her life was about to unfold and she could not help but look forward to it, though sorrow weighed at her heart as well. To leave Solas now was a cruelty she had no choice but to inflict, for herself, for him. Unspoken, they had both chosen to give no farewell but her resolve in that regard crumbled abruptly as the first of the sun's light bathed the city. She left her chambers and quickly made her way to his, knocking three times upon his door and receiving no answer. She entered anyway, pushing it open and stepping into his study. It was dark, though embers still glowed in the hearth. She called his name softly, passing through the study into the rooms beyond. They were all of them empty. She retraced her steps and paused in the study to see a large, thick white envelope perched on the edge of the desk. Her name was written in Solas' elegant hand across the front. She took it hesitantly, turning it over and breaking the seal. Within was a sheaf of folded parchment, which she carefully straightened out before examining the contents.

Evelyn, she read, there was a time, years ago, when I glimpsed you seated at a desk in the chantry in Haven, writing in a small book. Her eyes skimmed the rest of the letter, landing upon certain words and phrases that alone kindled myriad emotions to flare, that would when read completely overwhelm her. She scanned the other papers, her name scrawled at the top of every single one. Letters all, letters to her. She couldn't finish them here and now—Solas meant for her to read them during her voyage to Kirkwall. He'd known she would come to say her goodbyes. This was his farewell.

Her eyes stung. She wanted to find him, cling to him, stay with him for as long as life would allow. She couldn't, not now—he'd made certain she couldn't. He had gone so that she would go.

When later she rode out of the city with Dorian at her side and the Tevinter contingent behind them, the letters rode secure in a leather satchel at her waist.

.x.

Fourteen years ago she had left the Free Marches, destined for the Temple of Sacred Ashes as part of a religious delegation she had neither supported nor believed in. She had not been back since. The passage across the Waking Sea took weeks and Boone was equal parts excitement and nervousness to know that soon she'd be on home soil. Perhaps not specifically—she'd grown up in Ostwick, after all, but she was born a Free Marcher and now she was coming home.

She read Solas' letters every evening before going to bed, cherishing his words and the care with which he'd written them. In them was every admission of she had craved all those years ago, admissions he could not give but harbored all the same. It changed something within her to read his perspective, to read his expressions of emotion, to understand finally how he had viewed her in her time as Inquisitor. She began to struggle with her resolution to stay apart from him in order to reconnect with the others she had cut out of her life in order to survive. She loved him and he her. It should have been so simple. It was unfairly anything but. She stayed true to her course, disembarking in Kirkwall, wandering the unfamiliar city, both curious and fascinated. She had not bothered to send a messenger ahead, instead planning on surprising Varric by appearing at the keep unannounced but he was, as typical, one step ahead. Upon entering Hightown she was greeted with the dwarf, Bran, and a small group of the city's guard wearing what she was certain was ceremonial armor.

"Scribbles," Varric intoned with the grin she'd missed so much, dipping forward in a courtly bow, "Welcome to your new home."

.x.

She was installed in the mansion Varric had gifted upon her at Halamshiral despite her protests. He assured her he had not had to evict anyone, much to her relief. The mansion was small by the city's standards but still lavish and he had made certain it was both fully stocked and fully staffed in preparation for her arrival. Settling into a new way of life here was strange but not without enjoyment. There was a great deal to see in this city she'd heard so much about. She spent a large amount of time with Varric when he was not occupied by the duties of his station, though she suspected he spent far less time involved in said duties than he actually should have. Varric introduced her to Aveline, the captain of the guard and one of his other comrades from the time he'd spent in Hawke's company, as well as her husband, Donnic. Hawke herself was present in the city as well and they were reunited one night during a small feast Varric had hosted for that very reason.

"It's good to see you," Hawke said, clasping her Boone by the shoulders. Hawke was shorter and fleshier than Boone, an auburn-haired, blue-eyed mage that Boone had warmed to immediately upon meeting years ago. The two had forged an unplanned alliance to contend with a serious threat, had entered the Fade together and survived. It was a fellowship forged by battle, fear, and bitter victory and one that Boone was pleased to know had endured throughout everything that had transpired over the years.

Boone greeted Hawke in kind. Hawke half-turned, gesturing over her shoulder with one hand. "Fenris," was her lazy, half-smiling introduction, and Boone's eyes settled on the elf that had been, up until this point, completely silent. Boone had heard a lot about him from Varric and found that the dwarf's visual descriptions had been entirely accurate. Lyrium-marked and expressionless with a cool, steady gaze, Fenris merely inclined his head in her direction.

The feast that night was one Boone reveled in because it contained no manner of political agenda whatsoever. It was simply a dinner the Viscount was hosting in order to bring friends together. Boone listened to the stories that they all told, recounting certain events that had transpired before Hawke had become known as the Champion of Kirkwall. As the evening went on Boone ventured to share some stories of her own of her time with the Inquisition, steering away from the more delicate subjects and instead focusing on things she and Varric had experienced together. The conversation flowed as easily as the wine, though Boone was not partaking, and she found herself on more than one occasion observing the casual, simple exchanges of affection between Hawke and Fenris. Varric had explained Fenris' background and his logical hatred of mages stemming from it, and Boone wondered at the depth of his feelings for Hawke that he had been able to overlook her magecraft. They had clearly found their own brand of happiness and watching them filled her with bittersweet longing.

Her brief lapse into wistfulness had not gone unnoticed. At the end of the night, as Varric escorted her home, he said with a sideways glance, "I saw you had a long face for a moment."

"I miss him," was all she said.

"Should you?"

No judgment, no rancor, just his characteristic matter-of-factness. It made her smile a little. "Probably not," she told him. "But—"

"You love him."

"I do."

"Love," he sighed. "It can really fuck things up." Her agreement was a soft chuckle. He asked, "So what will you do?"

"Give it time," she told him, "and see what happens then."

"And when is then?"

She shrugged. He understood what she wasn't saying and laid a hand on her arm. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like, Scribbles, though I may have to start charging you taxes at some point. Bran will become unbearable if I don't."

Boone laughed outright. "I can afford them. For a while, at least." Which was the truth. Solas had supplied her with a considerable sum of coin before she'd left.

"Or maybe," Varric continued thoughtfully, "You're entitled to some manner of income as a comtesse."

"Not necessary!"

"It might be. Just to get you to stick around, if nothing else."

"I'll be here for a while," she assured him.

"You'd better be," he said, glancing at her as they drew to a halt outside the door to her house. "You need to make up for ten years of being gone."

"I'll do my best."

"Yeah," he said with a smile. "I know you will."

.x.

During their private talks, Varric encouraged Boone to speak about whatever she wished, whatever was troubling her at the time. He never asked or suggested directly. Instead, his encouragement was merely a raised eyebrow or a compassionate expression. She appreciated is willingness to listen, particularly when their discussions broached darker topics. They discussed Thom often, reliving fond memories, both paying verbal tribute to him in their own ways. Boone described Movda in great detail, wanting to impart to Varric just how wonderful the old woman had been and how much she'd been loved. She also spoke of the Mien'Harel and later, in halting tones, of Geldauran and all he'd said and done. Varric listened wordlessly, refilling her wine when her cup ran empty, and later when she'd finished he waited with gentle patience for her to regain her composure. Throughout it all he lent her the patient compassion of a true friend, something which she could never properly express her thankfulness for.

The passage of time surprised her with its swiftness. In Era'Adahlen prior to her abduction she'd had to struggle to fill her days with activity. In Kirkwall there was always something to keep her busy. Varric had encouraged her to resume her writing, which she did after purchasing the required implements from merchants in Hightown. After much deliberating she started scribing in her newest leather-bound book by writing of the day she'd arrived in Kirkwall. She had spent too long recording the grim and dismal, so these untouched pages she would fill with memories of a more pleasant vein. Sometime shortly after seven months had passed Boone started to feel the first faint stirrings of restlessness. She'd kept up a steady correspondence with Dorian and he ended every missive with an open invitation for her to come and reside in Tevinter for a time. She decided finally to take him up on it, purchasing passage with a sizable merchant caravan that traveled routinely from the Free Marches to Tevinter and back again. She informed Varric of her decision, a little hesitant to do so as she'd thoroughly enjoyed her time here, worried he'd get the wrong impression. He understood, however, promising that her mansion would remain available whenever she needed it despite her insistence he sell it.

"Next time," he told her the night before she departed, "I'll promote you to duchess. It comes with responsibilities. You won't be able to leave so easily."

"Next time," she responded, smiling, "I'll auction off my nobility and go live in Darktown."

She left for Tevinter amid wagons and carts laden with myriad vendor wares, in the presence of merchants and their families and the armed escort hired for this occasion. It was nearly autumn, the leaves beginning to turn, evoking memories of the last time she and Thom had journeyed together. It had been fall when they'd encountered the elvhen that had found her journal, setting into motion all the events that had led her to this moment. Thinking of Thom still hurt and always would, but there was still joy to be found in those recollections, scattered bits of trivial mirth, silliness, and comfort that she would cherish always.

The ride north was largely uneventful. The weather held fair. Most of the merchants made for pleasant company and it was an easy enough trip. Boone had purchased a gelding from a breeder outside Kirkwall, a well-rounded, soft-eyed buckskin suited to travel. She named him Drifter. She would have preferred Hob, but he was lost to her now. She dearly hoped that someone with a kind touch had found the big horse and taken him as their own. Drifter would more than suffice, and Boone found herself falling back into the pleasant nostalgia that leisure travel by horseback tended to elicit. Eleven days from Kirkwall the caravan reached Tantervale. They spent the night on the outskirts of the city and crossed into Tevinter the next morning via a bridge over the Minanter river, passing past Hasmal and then altering their course. Minrathous lay on the northeastern side of the Nocen Sea. They followed the Imperial Highway toward it, still in use after all these centuries, though they skirted the desolate Silent Plains in favor of more hospitable terrain.

It took another fourteen days of steady travel to reach Minrathous and by the time the city was in sight Boone was more than ready for a respite. She was dirty and aching, eager to see the famed city, even more eager to see Dorian once again. The stark, brutal architecture of the Tevinter capital became even more forbidding upon approach. Riding through the city's gates into the midst of its pronged towers and dark walls, it was easier to see the legacy the Imperium had left behind in Kirkwall. She was met at the stables nearest the main gate by a member of House Pavus, who waited as she paid a month's fee to board Drifter before leading her to Dorian's residence. The magister himself was waiting for her at the gated entrance to the sprawling manor, and as she came to a halt before him he stepped forward and swept her into a firm embrace.

"You look better," he remarked upon releasing her, touching a hand to her hair, which had grown out in the months past to fall just past her ears in thick waves. "Healthier. Happier. At ease."

"I am," she said, fondly tugging on one end of his moustaches.

"Well, you won't be for long. At ease, that is. This city has a tendency to put even the most relaxed of people on edge. But before that happens," he turned, slinging an arm around her waist and propelling her forward, "why don't I show you around a little? You will be staying here, naturally. House Pavus offers unrivaled hospitality. You'll only need to put up with our neuroses and paranoia and the occasional threat of assassination."

"I jest, of course," he said, leading her up a short staircase toward the manor proper, and then added in an undertone, "Somewhat." Reaching the huge central doors, he shoved one open in a grand gesture and led her over the threshold. He swept one arm out to indicate the interior, a vast corridor lit with hanging chandeliers and sunlight that filtered in through stained glass windows depicting rather grim scenarios.

"House Pavus," he intoned, mockingly ceremonious. "A veritable pillar of virtue and intrigue within Minrathous—and now your home, Evelyn. I hope you enjoy your stay."

.x.

There was much to learn of Tevinter, enough so that Boone struggled to absorb it all. Dorian's duties consumed most the hours in his days, but the remainder of his time he spent with her, taking pains in the beginning to ensure her transition into daily living was as seamless as possible. House Pavus had a large garden, teeming with an eclectic mix of greenery and it was there they often met, taking seats across from each other at a wooden table. Her questions were vast and varied and he answered them all. Thus she learned of the laetans and the altus, the praeteri and the soporati, the publicans and the praesumptor, and the daedal weave of scandal and treachery between them all. Slavery had all but been abolished in the ten years since the Inquisition had been disbanded, something Dorian had loudly and fiercely advocated for. It was a transition that had not gone over smoothly, and bitter political grudges still waged on a daily basis as a result. Dorian spoke of it all with the same cavalier disregard as he did most things, but Boone knew him well enough to know how invested he truly was.

Dorian's social circle was smaller than she'd anticipated, a fact she was quietly grateful for. The only person among that small circle that visited often was Dorian's close friend and fellow magister, Maevaris. Maevaris was direct, blunt, and caustic. Boone quite liked her. Together Maevaris and Dorian still led the Lucerni, though its protestations and pushes for reform had abated considerably in recent years. It was easy to see while watching the two interact with each other just how formidable a political force they had been.

Boone did not often leave the manor. Kirkwall had been large; Minrathous was vast and densely populated, and lengthy periods of time spent outside House Pavus led to her feeling crowded and mildly uneasy. The people of Tevinter were masters of social artifice, something she'd first been exposed to in dealing with Alexius. She didn't like it any better now than she had then, for even conversational niceties ran the risk of being infuriatingly duplicitous. Boone's history as the Inquisitor complicated matters further. Despite Dorian's efforts to downplay her presence in the city, word eventually spread. It became a weekly chore to fend off invitations to visit or entertain different members of the Magisterium. Dorian was firm that she need not satisfy their curiosity, something she had never intended to do anyway. However—

"There is to be a summit," Dorian told her one evening over dinner. Boone, knowing what news this portended, calmly laid down her fork and waited for the rest. "It was planned months ago. I didn't say anything earlier because…"

"It's all right," she told him, and insisted when he arched a skeptical brow, "I mean it. He'll be here, then?"

"Well… the formal reply was received from the Elvhenan just yesterday, announcing that High Keeper Sharal'noe would be in attendance."

"Sharal'noe," Boone repeated in shock.

"You know this person?"

She nodded. "Sharal'noe was one of the council Keepers often in attendance at Era'Adahlen. But Solas…"

Dorian was watching her carefully. "I had wondered what he would do, bereft of his all his power. It was not a facade he could maintain for long if at all. This was likely the wisest choice. Stepping down would prevent needless bickering at a time when the Elvhenan could least afford it. It's a good sign that there is already another High Keeper, though I do wonder what role he has chosen for himself."

Boone's thoughts were racing, numerous and varied. She and Solas had never spoken aloud what changes awaited him—she had sensed he was not yet ready to voice those possibilities and to ask would be to intrude on a wound still fresh, still sensitive. Like Dorian, she'd known that probability of Solas maintaining his leadership had been low, particularly considering it was by merit of his power the Elvhenan had been able to attain the status it had.

"The two of you have not corresponded since you left?"

She shook her head, eyes focused on the food still left on her plate. "There is nothing to say. Yet."

"Perhaps you will find something to say," he suggested. She looked at him and he shrugged thoughtfully. "I wouldn't be surprised if he were to attend as part of the Elvhenan's delegation." When she said nothing, he gently probed further, "Would you be averse to seeing him here?"

"No," she replied after a long moment.

"You don't have to attend the summit, of course. I have no choice but to, unfortunately."

"There will be feasting, I assume?"

"A great deal of it."

"I would like to attend, at least for one night." Before he could ask, she assured him, "I'm certain."

He smiled, reaching across the table to lay a hand on hers. "Very well. I'll be sure to secure our invitations. We've some time yet—it's not for another two months. If you should change your mind before then…"

Boone returned his smile, a sign of easy confidence, something she'd been displaying more often of late. "I won't."

.x.

She attended the inaugural summit feast dressed in one of her favorite gowns that Irithala had created. It was dark red, simple, elegant, and one of the few she'd brought with her. She was standing next to Dorian in the massive dining hall, surrounded on all sides by Tevinter nobility and feeling a little uneasy for it. She was polite but detached, uninterested in discussing politics as most who knew who she actually was assumed she would be. The visiting foreigners were many and as such, the procession of delegates that had to occur before the feasting could actually begin was a long and tedious one. Boone watched as sovereigns and leaders and other assorted persons of import trickled into the hall to be announced by the herald and then find their assigned spaces. Boone was not at all surprised to find that the delegation from the Elvhenan was to be announced last, likely for the dramatic factor. The people of Tevinter seemed to enjoy theatrics, staged or otherwise.

"The High Keeper of the Elvhenan, Sharal'noe Tinath," droned the herald.

The susurrus of the crowd was brought to an immediate hush, a first for the evening. Heads craned and chairs scraped as people positioned themselves eagerly to catch a glimpse of the leader of Thedas' most contentious nation. From where Boone and Dorian stood on a dais reserved for those slightly more important than the regularly important, they had a clear view of the massive entrance to the hall. Boone was unsurprised to see that Sharal'noe was notably under-dressed—from the little she'd interacted with the older woman at Era'Adahlen, it had been clear she cared little about the expectations of others. She was a tall woman and carried herself with a quiet dignity, surrounded on both sides by those wearing the distinctive traditional armor of the ancient elvhen. Other, lesser dignitaries proceeded behind the escort, men and women alike, some of whom Boone had met before. The herald announced them all.

"Legate of the Elvhenan, Fen'Harel."

The hush in the hall deepened. She'd been unable to see him for the others in his party but she saw him now, standing next to the herald, staring directly ahead without expression. It had been more than a year since she'd laid eyes upon him but still her heart spasmed to see him thus, a regal figured dressed in black and blue. Aware of Dorian's sidelong scrutiny she made a concentrated effort to keep her breathing even but knew he could intuit the state of her nerves. She could not tear her gaze from Solas as he moved to join the others in the elvish delegation, as he nodded his head and gave polite greetings to those who addressed him. She wondered if he even knew she was here, wondered if this distance between them—forced, despised, necessary—had changed the way he felt. She wondered about other things, too—his new position, the name he'd been introduced with, how he had fared all this while—

At her side, Dorian murmured, "He looks well."

It was the truth. He looked as he ever did, except somehow not. A little more worn, perhaps. A little saddened. Perhaps it was her perception altering what she saw, her knowledge that he no longer had godlike magic at his command. Perhaps it was her projection of her own longing, her own sorrow. All she knew, as she watched him take his place next to the other members of the elvhen delegation, was that his grip on her heart was as unrelenting as it had always been. She swallowed, feeling overwhelmed by too many people, too many voices, too many eyes. She wanted solitude, a few minutes to gather her thoughts, to calm her pulse. She wanted clarity and ease of mind.

She wanted Solas.

"It's one meal," Dorian said, his fingers sliding around hers and squeezing gently. "Eat quickly, if you like. Leave midway through. I'll let everyone know you're suffering from an acute case of indigestion."

She loved the way he wielded his humor sometimes, diffusing tempers and fears, assuaging worries. She rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath, flicking him a glance accompanied by a firm smile. "I'll be fine."

"I know you will. But if you aren't…"

The meal itself was sumptuous, but Boone scarcely tasted it. She forced herself to eat slowly, to chat amicably, to behave normally. She couldn't see Solas once seated; they were at opposite ends of the hall and there were too many bodies between them. Tevinter feasts were served in an agonizingly slow fashion and by the time the fifth and final course had been served it felt like several hours had passed. People were beginning to rise from their chairs in order to mingle and the sound of conversation became a dull and unrelenting roar.

The moment her plate was cleared she stood. Dorian looked up at her with his glass of wine halted halfway to his lips. He read her intent in the way her gaze scanned the room and when it alighted on him again he gave a short, understanding nod. With blunt yet polite farewells to those still seated at their table, she extricated herself by squeezing between chairs and smoothly sliding past clustered groups of people. Her destination was the table the Elvhenan had occupied, though she was entirely uncertain what she'd do once she reached him. The thought of approaching Solas made her falter—she wasn't sure she had the courage to, not yet, not after so long apart, after the way she'd left. If nothing else she had to simply see him again.

She was close, so very close, able to glimpse him in profile as he spoke to someone next to him. She halted, suddenly very uncertain, giving a group of Antivan delegates time to leave their table as a group in a slow train, cutting directly into her path. She fell back a step to give them space, both dismayed and appreciative for their disturbance. Stepping to the side she obtained a clearer view of the Elvhenan's table only to find that all seated there had risen also, likely with the intent to exit. Solas was surveying the room, hands clasped behind his back as he waited his turn to join the exodus out of the hall. Boone's heart quickened as his eyes moved in her direction and she was seized by the instinct to turn, to seek a place she could hide, but she couldn't. She wouldn't. She stood very still as his eyes passed over her—she was just one face in a sea of them, after all. Her breath left her, dismayed and relieved, and then caught in her throat as he jerked his head back around to focus on her.

They were the only two in the hall then, separated by nothing but distance. She had to tangle her fingers in the folds of her gown to keep from reaching out to him. They studied each other, suspended in these moments wrought from their shared tempest of love and frustration and anguish. He looked down briefly, and when he looked back up he wore a small, sad smile that cracked the foundations of all she was. Tears flooded her eyes and she had to look away, blinking, unwilling to dissolve into a weeping mess here and now. When she looked up next he was gone. Frantic, she stepped forward, her way still blocked by Antivans, but she caught sight of him moving with the other elvhen, caught up in the exiting throng. A peculiar hollowness gnawed at her to watch him go and she berated herself inwardly—what had she really expected? There was still so much between them, chasms that needed to be crossed, wounds that had yet to heal. She could not blame him for the decision to go. She understood his reasoning, in fact. But it hurt—

Dorian was there, his hand taking hers, leading her with him to the left where the flood of people was merely a trickle. There were numerous doors there and he pulled her toward one, loudly requesting people move when they strayed into his path. Such was the force of his personality that they parted before him and finally, finally, they were able to exit the hall. Once outside, Dorian turned to her and put his hands on her shoulders, peering into her eyes with a frown.

"I know where he has been housed," he told her after a minute. "I can take you there. Is that what you want?"

She thought about the smile Solas had given her, of how all the wordless messages it had contained, of all she'd felt when she'd seen it. She thought about what she wanted as opposed to what she thought she needed and gave her answer. "Yes."

Dorian gave a long sigh and pulled her into a hug, arms tightening around her. "Don't let this destroy you," he said against her hair. "Don't let him do that to you again."

She had no response. He pulled away, took her hand again, and began to walk briskly. Lost in turmoil, she followed.

.x.

As she knocked softly upon Solas' door, she had one fisted against her chest, an unconscious, futile attempt at slowing the breakneck pace her heart had suddenly adopted. Beyond the door all was silent and after a moment she took a half-step back, disappointment a yawning chasm that loomed at her feet. He may not have returned here, instead choosing to spend time with the other visiting elvhen. He may have been sleeping. Or he may, as she so greatly feared, simply have decided not to respond to her knocking. By the time the door swung inward she had already convinced herself of the worst, was on the verge of turning to go. He stood at the threshold and she swallowed once, twice, before saying, "Solas."

"Evelyn," he greeted in return, and then after a long moment opened the door wider, an invitation for her to enter. She took it, stepping past him into a large chamber lit by numerous lanterns and candelabras. As far as accommodations went the room was lavish, the floor decorated with large, sprawling fur rugs, the furniture elegantly carved, the walls adorned with artwork. She took it all in with a swift, encompassing look before turning back to face him as he shut the door.

The atmosphere was nearly strangling, cluttered as it was by their wants and uncertainties. As they regarded each other she felt her resolve falter. She'd wanted—well, she didn't know what she wanted beyond seeing him, beyond hearing his voice. Her body felt jittery, flooded with peculiar tension. She couldn't leave now. This was what she had come for and so she steeled herself, working hard to make her voice steady when she next spoke.

"Solas—" she started, but halted immediately. It was too hard to vocalize it all. Excuses and explanations only went so far and the rest was just the same old familiar hurt. And so she did the only thing she could think of that didn't end up with her trying clumsily to escape. She closed the distance between them, reaching out and taking his hand, lifting it to her lips. He inhaled sharply and she stepped closer, sliding her arms around his waist and laying her head against his chest. She waited for her worst fear to actualize, for him to remain wooden and unyielding in her embrace. He'd broken her heart and she'd broken his—tonight they might disintegrate completely, freeing themselves from each other. He leaned into her, though, his hands settling at her waist, and she closed her eyes to feel such relief that it weakened her.

"I've missed you," she said against the fabric of his robe.

"And I you," was his reply, the words achingly soft. "I had not thought to see you here."

"You surprised me as well," she said, and then asked hesitantly, "Legate?"

He sighed. "All things change. It was necessary, a transition I think will work very well. Sharal'noe is formidable in more ways than one."

"Are you…?"

He heard what she was unable to speak. His brow furrowed and she caught a fleeting glimpse of his fractured inner self in his eyes. He looked away reflexively. "I'm learning to adjust."

With the fingers of her artificial hand she gently turned his head back around. He was still hurting, still healing. She wanted to ease his tumult, and so she kissed him lightly on the mouth. His fingers at her waist flexed as she kissed him again, coaxing him to reaction. He breathed her name before her returned her kiss, mouths melding and tongues delving. When finally they halted both were panting. She plucked at the leather ties that affixed his customary wolf pelt to his shoulder, her fingers beset with a mild tremor. He was still as she proceeded, as she nudged the pelt to the floor, as she pushed the edge of his robe aside to ghost her lips over his exposed collarbone. One of his hands lifted to stroke through her hair, tightening when her teeth grazed along the column of his neck. His other hand gripped her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting her head back, making her look at him. As she'd hoped, he stared back at her with hunger and need, all traces of sorrow absent for now.

He spun her around abruptly, eliciting a startled noise to fall from her lips. She felt him working at the laces of her gown, quick and adept, and when it was done she shrugged out of it so that it pooled at her feet. His arms snaked around her, his mouth working lazy circles at the nape of her neck as she tipped her head forward. She wore only her shift and his hand flattened against her stomach before sliding upward, grazing the swell of her breast while at the same time he pulled her back against him. She felt his arousal hard against her and squirmed to turn in his grip, unfastening his belt once she had. He assisted her, belt falling away so that she could part his robe and shove it off his shoulders. It caught in the crook of his arms but he left it there.

"Come," he said, tugging her forward and then, after she'd gone only a few steps, seizing her by the shoulders and spinning her around. A gentle shove and she was against the wall and his mouth came crashing down on hers once more. Her hands were on his chest but strayed downward to press and rub against the rigid length of him. His groan fanned the heat already flooding her and she altered the kiss, nipping at his mouth.

"Solas," she entreated shakily. He drew back just enough to divest himself of the last remaining problematic bit of clothing and then he was there, hands sliding beneath her thighs and lifting, resting her on his own. Her fingers descended, grasping him, guiding him, and he pushed himself inside of her in one complete, powerful thrust. Her legs wrapped around him of their own accord. He approved, sucking at her lower lip before resting his head against her shoulder, trailing bites across the sensitive flesh there as he began to move inside her. Her hands were on his back, tensing with each thrust, her nails scraping just enough to make him shudder. He started slowly but gradually escalated into a quick, furious pace, shoving into her with enough force that her breath left her in short, explosive pants. He shifted suddenly, lifting her and pressing her back against the wall before driving into her hard and she succumbed, shattering into shards of euphoria as around him she spasmed. Three more thrusts and he followed, gasping her name as he spilled himself within her.

With hands that trembled she cupped his face, kissed him tenderly, before resting her head against his chest. He held her closely for long minutes, still buried within her, her legs still around him. Gradually he eased back and she let her legs fall, surprised they had the strength to hold her upright.

He brushed sweat-damp strands of her hair away from her brow. "Will you stay?" he asked softly.

Her reply was wordless as she took his hand and laid it flat against the space just above her breast, where her heart caged within hammered still. He ducked his head, replacing his hand with his mouth. When he sank to his knees she could do nothing but watch through lazy-lidded eyes. His breath was warm against her skin, his fingers parting her thighs. She waited, breath held in anticipation, but instead of proceeding as she so wished he merely looked up at her, eyes skimming the expanse of her body before locking onto her own. There was a teasing gleam in them, a request she would of course fulfill.

"I'll stay," she agreed in a whisper, and when his tongue met with parts of her so delightfully swollen from fucking, the next sound that left her was his name shaped as a moan.

.x.

They spent the night as what they were, lovers too long denied and blessedly reunited, exulting in each other, determined in their passion to keep everything else in the world at bay. Both their bodies bore marks, ownership claimed through rapturous throes. They were solely for each other as they had never been before, as they were uncertain they would ever be again. Toward dawn, as they lay entangled in utter exhaustion, she professed her love for him in a tired, vulnerable voice.

"I know," he murmured, his knuckles ghosting along her cheek. "As I love you."

They slept dreamlessly, a rarity for them both. When she woke, daylight streamed in past the window shutters. She knew instinctively she was alone. She rose, her body sore from the night's activities, and looked around to see that his belongings were still present. He'd risen and left in order to avoid the farewell they'd both been dreading. It was not yet time for full reconciliation. She'd felt it and he obviously had too. She should have been grateful for his thoughtfulness and she was, she was, and she told herself that even as she buried her face in her hands and wept.

It was not long after that when she returned to House Pavus. Dorian, seated at a table writing out a lengthy missive, took a single look at her and rose swiftly to his feet. He approached but did not touch her, instead asking carefully, "Are you all right?"

She thought about it before responding. "I will be."

Something in her tone convinced him. He nodded and spread his arms wide, and when she stepped into them he held cradled her close.

.x.