A/N: Surprise! Long chapter! I saw a chance to include this guy, and I really couldn't resist. He's so much fun to write. Enjoy!

Tales of the Champions

My hand may be gone, but the pain remains. It hurts. A heartbeat. Not mine. Hammering the beat of a song in its final verse.

The young man tipped the expansive brim of his hat up, peering over the balcony of the tavern's second floor. His sharp eyes caught everything from under those pale bangs. She was there, but she wasn't.

Time passes here, but I'm trapped in a moment. The moment. His moment. He doesn't see me, but he saw the real me.

"You really travelled with the King of Ferelden?!" Dorian cried, leaning away from Leliana in disbelief at their table. "Was he as tactless as rumor tells it? I heard Morrigan call him a 'royal oaf' one time."

"Oh, Alistair was pleasant enough company, but a terrible cook!" the former bard laughed.

"He cooked?!"

"I'll never forget the lamb and pea stew he made one time…at least, he claimed it was lamb and pea stew." Leliana held her drink close as she considered her next words. "How did he put it? Ah yes, the King's wisdomous words on Ferelden cuisine: 'We take our ingredients, throw them into the largest pot we can find, and cook them for as long as possible until everything is a uniform grey color. As soon as it looks completely bland and unappetizing, that's when I know it's done.'"

"Ooh! I think I have a new appreciation for the food here."

He doesn't want to hurt people. He's not that kind of wolf. But he hurts them still. He hurts me. He hurts himself.

Dorian called for another round of drinks over the din of the crowd. Leliana pointed out a comically drunk couple to Inara, who flashed a smile and a laugh before anxiously brushing her bare forehead.

Ar lasa mala revas. You are so beautiful. But he always turned away. Why?

The watcher's attention skipped to a patron in the back for a moment. The man was lonely and sullen, drowning the sorrows of his rejection in a pint of ale. But when a nearby bar wench sidled over to the lustful customer, the Herald's deepening abyss beckoned again.

Words soft. Lips passionate. But always holding back. Always afraid to see beyond.

Inara's laughter tittered over the other voices while Leliana and Dorian took the dancefloor by storm – something about Leliana never having learned a Ferelden jig that matched the quality of King Alistair's cooking. The Herald clapped along with the beat of the fiddle's song, but the mirth never reached her eyes.

Hands touched, but never lingered. Words meant, but never spoken. Always walked away. Ar lath ma, vhenan. Said so casually, yet it cried out with a thousand years of longing. A barrier broken. The forbidden declared.

The music died away as the fiddler stepped down, temporarily replaced by the roaring chatter of the drunkards and travelers. Dorian pried a story out of Inara that had to do with a drinking contest she had attempted with Iron Bull. That led to his recollection of a very specific game of Wicked Grace where Cullen lost all his clothes.

The world is fading. Withering. I am fading too, but only here. The Fade does not wither. It grows. Maybe I can grow there too.

The lad smiled as the evening's entertainer appeared from behind the bar. Maybe she could help.

An unanswered call. Longing, reaching. The Inquisitor fades; Suledin rises, yet so many depend on me. Cannot let them down. Clouded by doubt. Hope and desperation. Always just out of reach. Desire.

The moment Maryden began playing, Inquisitor Lavellan's empty eyes sparked with recognition.

Sera was never an agreeable girl—
Her tongue tells tales of rebellion.

Inara's swirling thoughts were stilled, drawn into the moment. Her companions too ceased their chatter upon noticing the bard who had been a fixture in the Inquisition's tavern. After a verse, the archer and mage resumed their conversation, noting the elf's contentment with the music. They began voicing their plans to bring a keg of ale to the Inquisition camp outside town.

She would always like to say,
"Why change the past,
When you can own this day?"

The observer smiled again, glad that the Inquisitor looked happier. Or at least less sad. Maryden was good at that, making people happy.

Today she will fight,
To keep her way.
She's a rogue and a thief,
And she'll tempt your fate.

As the music continued, Inara seemed to realize something, and her gaze idly began searching the crowd. When she swiveled in his direction, the less-sadness had grown to almost a fond sense of peace. Cole realized how much he had missed the Inquisitor. She had helped him, even when it meant going out of her way. She had helped him become more human. More himself.

I feel sun
Through the ashes in the sky.
Where's the one
Who'll guide us into the night?

Though he was sure she had not seen him, Inara remained leaning on the table, slightly turned to the left as though she could sense eyes on her. Had she looked up, she would have spotted her target immediately.

I am the one
Who can recount
What we've lost.

With a suspicious narrowing of her eyes, the woman returned her focus to her friends and began quizzing them about their knowledge of Varric Tethras' Tale of the Champion, specifically regarding the protagonist's companions.

With her thoughts occupied by conversation, the shadow openly studied her. While in the Inquisition, much of his knowledge of Inara Lavellan concerned her spirit more than her physical form. By the end of their time together, he knew every longing and every hurt of her heart. But now that he was more human, he allowed himself to refamiliarize with her appearance.

The longevity of her race meant that the elf's complexion still held a youthful glow, though her mental fatigue and the earlier brooding twist of her normally amused lips did make her seem a bit older. Her luscious red hair, once kept strictly restrained in a twisted bun, now poured over her shoulder in a loose braid. As she tipped her tankard, drinking deeply, the glower she shot at Dorian for a suggestive comment about Hawke's private epoch lost its bite due to the natural softness of her greyish green eyes. Even when making the most stinging remarks to her more loose-lipped companions, those eyes had always held nothing but the care and kindness of her spirit. They looked tired now.

"So, the Champion of Kirkwall, an apostate mage, fell in love with a former Tevinter slave who hated everything about magic," the Herald sighed somewhat skeptically. Leliana had just finished sharing her knowledge of the Champion's personal life. "And, not only did it work out in the end, but he fought with her to protect the mages before they ran away together? Hmph. Sounds so romantic."

"You want romantic?" a burly soldier with several missing teeth barked, pausing as he passed their table for a fresh drink. "I can sh-show you romance!" he slurred over the lady, straightening his grimy overcoat. "Gimme a kiss."

Dorian shot up from his seat, appearing behind the unwelcome guest with attempted civility. Inara remained on the bench, her lips fighting against the threatening smirk.

"Pardon me, good sir, but I don't think the lady is interested."

"And who are you to say so?!" the drunkard shouted, alcohol amplifying his hurt feelings. "I can take any woman I want; just ask anyone!"

The magister glanced at the warrior's snickering companions two tables away. One of them had the courtesy to approach with the intention of diffusing the soldier's inebriated wrath.

"I hardly think that is the case," Dorian prodded shamelessly. "If it were, I'm sure you would have no need to be soaking in the cheapest brew here to bolster your own confidence."

As he had likely planned, the soldier launched a powerful, uncontrolled swing with his fist. Dorian dodged out of the way just in time, and his attacker's helpful compatriot just happened to be within reach of the blow. Upon impact, the second man went toppling into the next table, spilling several tankards and earning the fury of the nearby occupants. The original contender was then distracted from Dorian by his vengeful friend.

Within seconds, a full brawl had broken out on pub's main floor. The Spymaster gracefully smashed someone's head against a pillar before the Inquisition visitors managed to reach the sidelines. Both Dorian and Inara were grinning with amusement.

"Just like the old days, eh?" the man hollered over the chaos. "So uncivilized."

"I think our recollections of the old days are a bit different," the Herald laughed while Leliana rolled her eyes. The group briefly leaned closer, apparently formulating a plan before Dorian backed away with an extravagant bow.

"Meet you at the camp, yes?"

With a nod to the overhead balcony, the mage slipped through the fray, knocking a few heads together on his way toward the exit. Leliana snuck behind the bar to barter for a keg of ale. Inara, in the meantime, had disappeared. The watcher frowned at his inability to find her again.

Lavellan's mischievous expression softened as she stealthily landed on the balcony behind her old friend. The moment she spotted Maryden, she knew Cole wouldn't be very far. He was one of the sneakiest people she knew, yet his inability to make people forget his presence had increased her chances greatly of finding him. With a simple scan of the room, the woman had caught that massive signature hat out of the corner of her eye. Unfortunately, outmaneuvering a rogue who matched her abilities was easier said than done.

"Hello," the boy greeted simply without even a backward glance.

Inara chuckled, accepting the victory of at least getting this close, and she hopped down from her perch to sit across from the blond boy at his rickety table.

"That hat may prove to be a hazard someday," she quipped, earning a subtle eyeroll for the classic tease. "What brings you here, Cole?"

"There are people hurting here," he replied matter-of-factly. "They sit on a precipice. They feel it, though they do not know it."

"Good to know I'm not the only one feeling it."

Seemingly ignoring her grumble, Cole leaned his arms against the banister to stare at the brawl that was slowly being broken up.

"They left for love, and then love lost them. More pain, more joy than anyone can bear, and yet they embrace it." Inara cocked her head at the familiarity of his words, but she couldn't quite recall when she first heard them. "You're worried."

"I worry about a lot of things," she snorted. "It's not exactly a new development."

"But you worry about closer things. Farther things. Bigger things. Daisies and wolves dance in your head. The hawk would have been safe if it had stayed, but that isn't what hawks do." He caught her eye. "You think you owe Varric for his loss."

"I know I owe Varric. And for once, I think I can do something about it."

"But the deeper you go, the more you think might lose. The deeper you go, the less those things seem to matter." Inara trembled slightly, despite the booze warming her blood, and Cole shifted to meet her gaze fully. At the beginning of the Inquisition, most of her companions had found the boy's insightfulness creepy. Today, she found herself unspeakably relieved to not have to explain her own conflicting emotions. Right now, he probably knew her mind better than she. "Ask what you need."

"Cole, you… You knew about Solas, didn't you? Maybe not clearly, but you felt he was different."

"You were all different," he shrugged. "You're different now. Your hand doesn't blind anymore, but your spirit glows. Part here, part there. You reach into the unknown and take pieces of it into yourself, and somehow become more yourself. You have a face you want to show, but there's a face that's hidden, secret. Your friends see glimpses, but they cannot help because they are here. Solas had a face he hid."

The elf leaned back in her chair, her brow furrowed as the tavern calmed enough for Maryden to resume playing. She wanted to pour out her soul to this mortal Spirit of Compassion – to tell him of how much she longed to fall into Solas' embrace, to scream at him for all of the pain he put her through, to shield him from his fate – but there were no words. She wanted to voice her frustration at her own shortcomings, her inability to magically unite Thedas, and the faith so many put in her to destroy the man she increasingly wanted to aid. She needed only to look at Cole to know he felt it all.

"I can't know anything until I find him, but I don't think he wants to be found." Inara picked her braid loose, slowly running her fingers through the thick locks. All of the Spirit's cryptic quips from the past were beginning to make sense. "Cole, you once said that I made him forget so that he could change. Is that true? Did he change?"

"You changed everything." A shock ran down her spine at having Solas' words mirrored back at her yet again. "Ar lath ma, vhenan. You showed him this world was more than a dream. You beckoned to the untamable wolf. He began to see a beauty, a simplicity, a vulnerability that he thought lost and buried. He came to destroy this world. But then he found you. You change everything."

"Clearly not," the woman simmered, sternly redoing her braid. "He still left, and he's still trying to bring down the Veil. My problem is that I'm no longer sure he's wrong."

There. She said it.

"Maybe not. I think you will find him." Cole cocked his head knowingly. "But his leaving is not your fault. His choices were made long before he found you, tempered and enraged by time. You made him remember, but not forget. You help."

"Maybe I helped," groaned Inara, feeling another headache coming on, "but all he may see in this world now is the Inquisitor's grasping attempts to foil and defeat the Dread Wolf at every turn. There's only one way to see that: As an enemy. The Fade is my only real chance to reach him as me."

"There's danger in the Fade. The brighter you become there, the more they will find you."

Inara scowled at the precipice of their conversation before a plotting smile graced her lips.

"Cole, would you and Maryden like to accompany me? Leliana and Dorian should have managed to get that keg to my men's camp by now."

It was nearly midnight when Dorian sauntered over to Cole, who stood protectively over their leader at one of the farther campfires. The diminutive elf was bundled comfortably under a warm layer of bedrolls. She almost looked content.

The Nightingale and the magister had managed to acquire a keg of good wine in addition to the ale from the tavern. The Inquisition troops who remained posted outside Perivantium welcomed the distraction with merriment, especially once Maryden arrived with her music. In defiance of the unseasonably chilled air, their camp had become a staging ground for Leliana's ravens and Inara's continued outreach to the other countries. Morale was most improved.

"She's not there," Cole announced blandly, watching his charge. "The nightmares are becoming worse when she's awake; they are better now. She doesn't think you know. Not really."

Dorian folded his arms tiredly, the mirth of the evening fading into the lines near his eyes.

"I know. Maker, I know," he breathed. "She does what she must, as always. But it's tearing her apart this time. The world remembers the Inquisitor, and it thinks she can stand against all the evil in the world without breaking a sweat. But she can't, not like this. One day, she may have to lay aside that mantle and make a choice for herself, not for Thedas. The coming days will require actions she is not prepared to take."

"Others will come. Other heroes. They always do. And she's almost ready."

Dorian hummed skeptically, but did not question Cole's words.

"Unfortunately, I think I know where those other heroes are emerging. I'm not sure Inara will be all too thrilled."

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